


A Study in Transfiguration

by Aristophanium



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Case Fic, M/M, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2014-03-02
Packaged: 2018-01-05 20:25:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 37,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aristophanium/pseuds/Aristophanium
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Ravenclaw common room. Come at once, if convenient. - S.H.”<br/>John shook his head and blinked down at the note again. It was well after hours, did Sherlock honestly think that he would hop out of bed and come practice turning mice into elephants in the dead of night? </p><p>John Watson is a Seveth-year Gryffindor student. He and that strange Ravenclaw boy, Sherlock Holmes are partnered together to practice Transfiguration (Hogwarts AU)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Lead me not into Temptation

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [变形术的研究](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5148788) by [shanzhu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/shanzhu/pseuds/shanzhu)



> I really hope you enjoy this story. It was an amazing learning experience for me, by far the longest thing I've written and completed... And fun too! If you've ever thought about writing fic yourself, just go for it. Write a few chapters, post one up and you might surprise yourself!
> 
> The feedback, comments and kudos have been (and continue to be) simply amazing. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart, for all the love and all the support you've given me. :) It's been a pleasure writing with you guys. This work remains completely un-beta'ed so let me know if you spot any canon!fail or any mistakes.
> 
> Hopefully I will be putting fingers to keyboard and writing even more soon.

John was getting there, but the assignment was bloody difficult. Transfiguring a mouse into an elephant (and back again) was something they all needed to learn for their NEWT exams. The transfiguration was famous throughout the school. John had actually given it a go back in fourth year with disastrous results. He still hated the sight of mouse tails. But once you've faced one that had been blown up to over a hundred times it's natural size, it was only to be expected. The spell took the better part of twenty minutes. Working from the ground up, it took several passes, scaling up the requisite parts in stages. The first time John tried it out by the lake (Professor McGonagall had, wisely, decided that it would be a bad idea to have fifteen elephants trumpeting about her classroom) he had engorged the toes first, only to have the mouse keel over due to the strenuous load of a mouse-sized heart keeping blood flowing through elephant sized toes. Thankfully, McGonagall had set the poor creature right before any serious damage was done. She hadn’t taken any points off Gryffindor either (something John was very thankful for). In fact, the only student who successfully transfigured their mouse into an elephant was the Ravenclaw boy, Sherlock Holmes.

“Look everyone,” said Professor McGonagall, inclining her head toward Sherlock’s elephant, “Mister Holmes has done it.”

“Dull,” muttered Sherlock, under his breath. John only heard because he was standing next to him.

“What was that, Holmes?” asked Professor McGonagall.

“I said, dull, professor,” said Sherlock, “this assignment. It’s dull, boring, predictable… surely you can arrange a task that’s more fitting to our skill level.”

“I was going to reward your house with five points, mister Holmes, but thanks to your cheek, you shall receive none.” She paused, “also, your elephant’s trunk is twitching like a mouse’s nose, you may not have noticed since you were so busy criticising my syllabus.”

She turned her back and walked away, Sherlock looked appalled, but John definitely saw a tiny twitch in the elephant’s trunk. He tried not to smile.

He had never had a whole lot to do with Sherlock. He noticed him around from time to time, but the two boys were in different houses and the Gryffindors only had transfiguration, arithmancy and care of magical creatures with the Ravenclaws. Sherlock didn’t take care of magical creatures and John didn’t take arithmancy so their paths only ever crossed in McGonagall’s class. And most of the time the Gryffindors kept to one side of the classroom and the Ravenclaws to the other. A casual wariness that was older, perhaps, than the transfiguration classroom itself. Now that they were outdoors, they were much more jumbled up. John often wondered whether Hogwarts would be a better school if there wasn’t so much emphasis on each student in their own house. The Ravenclaws intrigued him sometimes.

“Thanks for that, freak” said Sally Donovan, smiling. House points were always so important to her

“Sally,” said John, irritated. He was fond of his fellow Gryffindors but Sally’s hatred for Sherlock, simply because he was smarter than the rest of them, really got irritating after a while. Sherlock’s aristocratic face glanced John’s way and then back at his elephant again. It was the closest to a ‘thankyou’ he was likely to get.

“Attention students,” called Professor McGonagall when class was finished, “I would like you to pair up with another student who is not in the same house as you. Please practice the transfiguration together throughout this week. I expect each and every one of you to have the ability to transfigure your mouse into, at least, miniature elephant by this time next week. Each student is to take the spell in turns so that the other can supervise and ensure that all the steps are followed correctly and if an error is made, they can help remedy the error before any damage is done to the mouse.” She paused, “please only practice outdoors.”

John glanced around, eying his fellow Gryffindor friends, Molly and Mike. Catching Mike’s eye, he shrugged. The students were pairing up quickly. Sally had moved as far away from Sherlock as he could, in fact, most of the Gryffindor students were giving him a wide berth. He was quite intimidating, John supposed, he didn’t have many friends of his own, save perhaps the popular Slytherin boy, Victor Trevor. Sherlock was tall and dressed very old-fashioned for a wizard so young. He stood out, part of an old wizarding family. His school robes had a black collar which he kept turned up, his pale skin stark in comparison. The blue of his Ravenclaw scarf complimented his green-blue eyes.

John only realised he was staring when Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him quizzically.

John blinked clenching and un-clenching his fingers around his wand and stepped surely towards him.

“Do you want to practice together?” John asked.

“I don’t require a practice partner,” said Sherlock, surveying the smaller boy, “but your mouse’s toe situation clearly requires supervision.”

“Is that a... Yes?”

Sherlock nodded curtly and turned, his robes swirling around him, and headed back to the castle.

“When do you want to meet to practice?” asked John, jogging to catch up to him.

“I’ll send you a note,” said Sherlock, bustling away.

 

—

 

The note arrived by way of a regal-looking owl tapping on the window of John’s window that night. John opened the window and the owl eyed him imperiously before dropping the piece of parchment onto John’s bedspread and flying back outside again. John kept the window open, the summertime air was cool, but fresh and the room was getting a little stuffy.

He picked up the note and unfolded it.

“ _Ravenclaw common room. Come at once, if convenient. S.H._ ”

John shook his head and blinked down at the note again. It was well after hours, did Sherlock honestly think that he would hop out of bed and come practice turning mice into elephants in the dead of night? Being out of bed after dark was dangerous, even for a seventh-year. Was his request in any way normal? Perhaps for a Ravenclaw it was. Or for a Holmes. Sherlock and his brother Mycroft were legendary in Hogwarts. One Slytherin and one Ravenclaw and both terrifyingly intelligent. Mycroft had finished school and taken a job at the Ministry the year before John and Sherlock had started at Hogwarts. He had more OWLS and NEWTS than any of the other students in his year and Sherlock, John assumed, would do the same. The Holmes family was old and pure-blooded and… that was everything that John knew about Sherlock. Well, aside from the rudeness. One of the reasons Sally hated Sherlock so much was because he once bluntly deduced, by the state of her robes and something about her wand, that she had been sneaking into the astronomy tower to visit the near-squib Ravenclaw boy Phillip Anderson. John had no run in’s with Sherlock, though. No reason to call him a ‘freak’, he didn’t like the word, particularly. John was curious to see what Sherlock was like on his own. And a night out of bed wasn’t exactly something he’d never done before. Though, typically, he sneaked into the Astronomy Tower at night.

Resigned, he hopped out of bed and fished out his wands from the bedside table. He cast a disillusionment charm over himself and set out. The portrait of the fat lady creaked as he opened and closed it again.

“Who’s there?” she asked. John shushed her in reply and set off before she could recognise him. The charm didn’t cause complete invisibility, after all. It was better to be safe than sorry. John was observant, he knew where the Ravenclaw tower was. He headed for the west wing of the castle and, quietly as he could, climbed the steep staircase. He had never broken into another house’s common room before and his heart was pounding by the time he reached the top of the stairs. A mix of excitement and exertion from the stairs, no doubt.

The entrance to the Ravenclaw common room was a door with a bronze knocker in the shape of an eagle. The eagle eyed him quizzically and then asked,

“Where do vanished objects go?”

“I uh…” floundered John, “I’ve never really thought about it before…”

“When an object is vanished it goes from existence to non-existence. Energy and matter cannot be created or destroyed. If an object is vanished, it’s essence breaks apart and goes… everywhere. What a simple question. Do try to come up with something more complex next time or our tower will be overrun with Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors.

“Sherlock,” said John, turning to see the taller boy take off a shimmery article of clothing, appearing seemingly from nowhere.

“Is that a?”

“Invisibility cloak?” asked Sherlock, “yes, made from the hair of a Demiguise, my brother procured it for me. It’s already malfunctioning, I had to cast a bedazzling hex on it so it would stop flickering me in and out of invisibility. Cup of tea?”

John nodded, removing his disillusionment charm with a wave of his wand. Sherlock lead the way inside the common room. It was a large, circular room with a midnight-blue carpet. The domed ceiling, like the great hall, was bewitched to look like the night sky. There were arched windows looking out over the grounds, the fresh summer air whistled through an open window to the east.

Sherlock flicked his wand and two empty tea cups filled themselves. He passed one to John and sat in a large blue and bronze winged chair.

“So,” said John, taking a seat opposite, “it’s the middle of the night, Sherlock, why on earth have you called me out of bed to practice transfiguration now?” And am I really so bored and lonely that I came out in the dead of night at your whim? He wondered, silently.

“Well,” said Sherlock, “the assignment is boring. I can do it, with a bit of practice even you will be able to do it. I was thinking perhaps we spend our time working on something more interesting.”

“And what’s that?” asked John.

“We learn to transfigure ourselves. Become animagi.”

“Animagi,” said John, fixing him with an unconvinced look, “that would be really dangerous.”

“Yes, dangerous… it’d prove a point to McGonagall and it’d be much more fun.”

Sherlock’s eyes seemed to glow in the dim light of the common room.

“Sherlock, we don’t know a thing about one another, don’t you want to spend weeks learning to do this with someone you know better?”

Sherlock fixed him with a dark look, “John, I know one of your parents, probably your father was an Auror and he was killed by the dark wizard. If your mother survived, she passed away more recently, you’re the only magical child in your family, you have at least one sibling, definitely a squib, you get along well. I know you want to be an Auror someday and you secretly crave danger. That’s enough to be getting on with, don’t you think?”

John stared at Sherlock, aghast. These were things he had never told anyone at Hogwarts, how had Sherlock learned so much about him.

“How…” he began.

“You carry two wands,” said Sherlock, “you use one for charms an defensive spells like that disillusionment charm, and the other in transfiguration. The wand you used tonight is long, springy. Clearly designed for someone taller than yourself. It’s scuffed and scratched, seen a lot of action, then. Father’s wand. Auror is looking likely as it’s original owner clearly has no use for it anymore. Everyone knows that Aurors were dropping like flies when Voldermort had his last stand and later during the aftermath of his fall, when we were little children. The other wand hasn’t seen as much action but is clearly second-hand as well. The size is about right for your height so not owned by the same person as the first. Also you use it for transfiguration and not charms or defensive spells. So it’s your mother’s wand but clearly not an Auror’s wand or you would use the two interchangeably. Clearly, she has no use for her wand anymore either. Could be she was killed along with your father but you don’t strike me as the child raised without a caring mother, I should know. So you had her in your life for longer. You’re not from an old wizarding family, the name Watson isn’t on any family trees I’ve seen. One or perhaps both your parents were muggle born. The whole school knows about your skills in Defence against the Dark Arts, you study it like your life depends on it. You were present when your father was attacked. You want to avenge him, probably become an Auror yourself. Clearly you’re the only magical child in your family because you posses both your parents wands.If you had a sibling here at Hogwarts, you would have one wand each. You do have a squib sibling though.”

“How could you possibly know about my sister.”

“Shot in the dark, good one though. I’ve seen the weekly owls you get. Always the same owl. Unlikely an aunt or uncle would write that often. Immediate family it is. So you see you were right.”

“Right about what?” asked John.

“I should undertake this project with someone I know quite well. And you, John, you’re a Gryffindor, one with a dark past. You crave danger and already posses enough magical skill to make something like becoming an animagi possible. In fact, I don’t doubt it’s something you’ve considered doing yourself. It’d be quite a thing to be able to show the ministry that little skill. They would be very likely to have you undertake Auror training with that skill alone. And so, I call you out of bed to sneak through the castle in the dead of night and here you are, sitting at the edge of your seat.”

“That…” said John, his mind reeling, “was amazing.”

“Do you think so?” asked Sherlock, a little surprised but preening all the same.

“Yes, it was extraordinary. It was amazing.”

“That’s not what people usually say,” murmured Sherlock.

“What do they usually say?” asked John, though he had a fair idea considering Sally’s opinion of Sherlock.

“Piss off.”

John couldn’t help but laugh at that.

“Did I get anything wrong?” asked Sherlock.

“Well… My father was a muggle-born Auror, he died when a Death Eater attacked our house. I do want to train as an Auror when I finish school. It probably is a vengeance thing,” he paused, “I carry both my parents wands. But my mother… is very much alive. She lives in the muggle world with my sister - a squib. She gave me her wand when I started at Hogwarts because she kept being tempted to use it. It’s usually her that owls me though, not my sister.”

“The muggle world. She chose to live without magic. How.” Sherlock looked genuinely baffled.

“Magic isn’t everything, Sherlock,” said John.

 

—

 

John couldn’t believe he was actually sneaking into the restricted section of the library under an invisibility cloak with Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock clearly had about as much respect for the school rules as most of the students in Gryffindor house. But he was enough of a genius not to get caught.

“Here we go,” said Sherlock, pulling the cloak off them and stroking a long pale finger down the spine of a dusty old book.

“You know, I am pretty sure if I asked McGonagall, I could get permission to get these books.”

“Where’s the fun in that?” asked Sherlock, taking one of the books off the shelf and handing it to John.

He had to agree, really. He hadn’t been out of his dormitory after hours in what seemed like years. It was… oddly refreshing.

Sherlock nudged him with another, smaller, book and John took it from him their hands brushing. Sherlock turned to the shelves again and made an intrigued noise. John could see his cheekbones and a dusty old book illuminated in the wand-light.

“Not related to our current studies, but I think this is the book that…” he removed it from the shelf and opened it. A long, hollow wail came from the pages. Snapping it shut, Sherlock looked to John, his eyes wide. The wailing sound seemed to echo endlessly off the library walls.

“Someone will have heard that.” Muttered John, grabbing Sherlock’s arm and hauling them both to their feet, “we need to get out of here.”

“This way,” said Sherlock, ducking behind the bookshelves. John followed. Sherlock climbed up one of the rolling library ladders and hoisted himself up on top of the bookshelf. John followed tossing up the books Sherlock had picked out and clambered up just in time. He heard the library door slam and Filch’s wheezy sing-song voice.

“Students out of bed… come out, come out, wherever you are.”

“Jeez,” John muttered, wobbling perilously on top of the bookshelves. Sherlock steadied him a slender hand closing around John’s upper arm. Sherlock caught his gaze.

“This way,” he breathed, nodding to the next bookshelf before picking up their stolen books and jumping lightly from one bookshelf to the next and then the next. John watched, aghast, but then steeled himself, chin lifted and followed. It actually wasn’t so difficult, as long as he avoided looking down. They crossed the room, right above Filch. It was as though Sherlock had memorised a route through the library for just this occasion. John almost ran into the back of him when he stopped suddenly, turning and climbing down another one of the brass library ladders, his dark robe billowing dramatically around him. John followed and they crept out of the door Filch had left ajar.

Finally having the time to do so, Sherlock untangled the invisibility cloak and they threw the it over them again and ran back to the closest common room, Gryffindor, as fast as they could, their ankles visible to whatever portrait or ghost or cat they passed. John muttered the password and the fat lady and they rushed inside gasping for air.

“That was ridiculous,” said John, leaning against the back of the portrait, “jumping across bookshelves, that’s one of the most ridiculous things I’ve ever done.”

Sherlock giggled, almost boyishly and touched the side of John’s face.

“Fun though, right?”

“Oh god yes,” said John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I have written John and Sherlock the way I imagine they would have been in highschool. Sherlock isn’t as mad and introverted, John isn’t damaged from the war. Though they have elements of that going on still.
> 
> \- I sorted everyone mostly based on the conclusions of DrinkingCocoa in the Three Patch Podcast but I moved some students from Hufflepuff into other houses so that it was easier for all the characters to run into one another in their common rooms. House affiliations are as follows:  
> Ravenclaws: Sherlock Holmes, Phillip Anderson.  
> Gryffindors: John Watson, Molly Hooper, Sally Donnovan, Mike Stamford (I think in an ideal world I’d agree with DrinkingCocoa and put Donnovan in Hufflepuff, but I wanted John to have Gryffindor friends other than just Molly).  
> Slytherins: Mycroft Holmes, Victor Trevor… Victor was ACD Sherlock’s uni friend.
> 
> \- John typically sneaked into the Astronomy Tower… in HP fanon, the Astronomy Tower was the main place students would go to meet up with other students (as the shared dormitories weren’t really a good place to get busy in secret *wink*). Just a little nod to Four-continents Watson and his many romantic trysts. 
> 
> \- Jumping along the top of the bookshelves in the library is a direct reference to the Harry Potter PC games. I was tempted to have them find some Berty Bott’s Every Flavour Beans up there but that was probably taking things too far. Also I liked how it harked back to the rooftop chase in ‘A Study in Pink’.
> 
> \- You may have guessed, I’ve put Sherlock and John into Hogwarts in 2014 (the year I am writing this, well technically it’s December 2013 right now but… you know). So basically the story is set many years after Harry, Ron and Hermione and therefore well after the demise of the Dark Lord in 1998 (?).


	2. The Hero at the Top of the Stairs

Suddenly, it seemed like Sherlock Holmes was everywhere. He was reading a book (possibly one of their stolen ones) when John returned to the library the next day. He was sitting with Victor Trevor at the Slytherin table at lunch time, he was by the lake when John crossed the grounds on his way to Quidditch practice. Hogwarts didn’t have the biggest student body, it was true. But the castle was a large building. Had Sherlock always been so… around? John scarcely believed that last night had even happened. It seemed like a dream, if it wasn’t for the bruise on his ankle that he had gotten clambering up and down bookshelves, he probably would have thought it HAD been a dream. Nothing about Sherlock’s behavior indicated that they had spent last night together, hatching a plan to become animagi and running away from castle caretakers. John watched Sherlock as he had dinner at the Ravenclaw table. He didn’t eat much. Sherlock’s steely blue eyes didn’t even flick towards the Gryffindor table. It honestly was as though nothing had happened the night before. Perhaps he had decided not to go ahead with this hair-brained scheme after all. Maybe it was for the best. John couldn’t help but feel disappointment wash over him at that.

“Attention Students!” called Headmaster Fortescue, standing up from his place at the center of the staff table, “Our caretaker Argus Filch has informed me that he found evidence of students out of bed in the restricted section of the school library last night. I have since investigated the… scene of the crime and found that the books that were taken were some very serious texts. The spells therein should not be taken lightly. If any of our senior students,” he surveyed them all, “are interested in assistance with further study in advanced transfiguration,” his eyes fixed on Sherlock, “all they need to do is ask myself or Professor McGonagall.”

John swallowed, trying not to look too suspicious.

“I would ask that the books be returned to the library as soon as possible. It is unlikely detentions or other punishments will be handed out to any student who returns them before this time tomorrow. My staff and I certainly do not condone the unsupervised experimentation of advanced transfiguration as this practice is incredibly dangerous, not to mention… illegal for underage students.”

A murmur went about the students as the Headmaster sat down at his seat again. John was thankful that, as a prefect, he had his own room. No one knew that he had left Gryffindor tower last night. Also, since he was not underage, at least he wasn’t breaking any magical laws. He wondered if Sherlock was missed from his dormitory last night. For some reason, he couldn’t imagine the tall, slender boy asleep. He was always so guarded and… upright. He looked over at the Ravenclaw table again and caught Sherlock’s eye. Sherlock winked at him.

 

—

 

John didn’t head up to his room for several hours. First, he checked the castle for Sherlock. He wanted to talk about what they should do about the books. But suddenly, the other boy was nowhere to be found. He wasn’t game to enter Ravenclaw tower again. Even if he tried, he doubted he’d be able to answer the door’s riddles without Sherlock’s help. Eventually, he sat down in his favorite spot by the common room fire and did some assigned reading from his textbook for defense against the dark arts. He was so absorbed in his work that he lost track of time and ended up reading more chapters than he had meant to. But he was fascinated by the advanced defensive spells, the work they would be undertaking next was almost as exciting as becoming an Animagus.

John climbed the stairs to his dormitory, entered and closed the door behind him.

“About time you showed up, I was wondering.”

John almost jumped out of his skin. Sherlock.

“What on earth are you doing in my bedroom? How did you even get in here?!” he stammered, his heart pounding in his chest.

“Just making a few notes,” Sherlock was sitting on John’s bed the stolen books before him and a sea of note-scribbled parchment covered the rest of the surface of the bed. “As for how I got in,” he continued, “You revealed the password to the common room last night. I came in wearing my cloak. It wasn’t hard to deduce which prefect’s room was yours.” Sherlock gestured to the family photograph by John’s bedside table, “Maybe I shouldn’t have turned down Fortescue’s offer. Being a prefect clearly has it’s benefits. A room to yourself… and I’ve heard tell of a rather incredible prefect’s bathroom from Victor.”

“How many other boys’ rooms did you break into before you found mine?” asked John, weakly.

“Just one,” said Sherlock, absently. He returned to his notes.

“But… won’t the other Ravenclaw boys realise you’re the one who stole those books? You’re out of bed two nights in a row now.”

“Which is why I’ve been making notes. Got almost enough that we won’t need the books now. We can return them tomorrow with no harm done.”

“You have written rather a lot,” conceded John, walking over to the bed. Christ, the notes were on both sides of the parchment. Sherlock, the madman, had written enough to have composed his own Animagus handbook. Twice.

“Yes,” agreed Sherlock, “my quill hand is rather sore.”

“Let me see,” said John, clearing a spot on the bed and sitting next to Sherlock. Sherlock eyed him suspiciously and offered his hand. John took the quill from him and set it down in the inkpot. Then he took Sherlock’s hand and began massaging his palm, softly.

“What are you doing?” asked Sherlock, quietly.

“Massage,” said John, “it’s a muggle remedy for sore muscles.”

“I don’t think it works,” said Sherlock, skeptically.

“If it didn’t work, I wouldn’t be doing it, Sherlock. Would I?”

“Why do you care if my hand hurts?”

“Well, you’ve been working away on this all evening, probably all day. And I’ve been going off to Quidditch practice and getting my homework done… I guess it’s the least I can do to thank you for getting us this far into it.”

“So you’re in then.”

“I must be.” Shit.

They were quiet for a little while, Sherlock rifling through his notes with his free hand whilst John worked on the other. Sherlock really did have lovely hands. They were slender, and bony, his fingers long. The fingernails were rounded neatly and clean. He didn’t bite his nails like John did when he was thinking. His hands weren’t feminine, precisely. They were too square for that. Practical, they looked strong despite being so slender. Like a piano player’s hands. John liked them. He liked all of Sherlock, he supposed. The boy was a mystery to him.

“My hand feels better now,” said Sherlock, gently, after a while.

John let him go and hopped up off the bed, straightening the bed sheet.

“I’m worried about you being here, Sherlock,” said John.

“Worried someone might catch me in here with you and come to the wrong conclusion?” he asked, scribbling on yet another roll of parchment.

“Now that you mention it, people might talk.” John said.

“People do little else,” replied Sherlock, dismissively.

“I more meant… well, I don’t want you getting into any trouble.”

“Don’t be ridiculous John. The professors know it was me who stole those books. However, if they search my possessions or my person tomorrow, they will find no evidence of my having done so. All the evidence will be here. The staff will never search here because as far as the entire school body is concerned, you and I barely know each other. We have been tasked with practicing some transfiguration work together, something which we are yet to do and beyond that we have had no contact… officially, for the entirety of our careers at Hogwarts. It’s the perfect cover for me and for you. Two complete strangers with little enough in common and no contact. It’s… well, one might say genius. But I don’t want to trumpet my own horn.”

“No we can’t have that,” muttered John. He had to agree, though, Sherlock had a point. There was nothing connecting the two of them. Sherlock just had some kind of uncanny ability to pick out the secret madman in Gryffindor and put together a scheme mad enough that he would go for it.

“Here,” said Sherlock, handing John several rolls of parchment, “put these in order according to the contents page in this book”.

John obliged.

 

—

 

John felt like the time flew. They were working fast and efficiently, but he honestly felt like he’d been sitting on the floor of his bedroom for four minutes before he migrated everything up to the bed where Sherlock was. He felt like they’d been working there for another five and yet somehow it was almost midnight when they were finally finished taking down the notes they needed.

“I might drop these back at the library tonight,” mused Sherlock, as he placed the final piece of parchment at the bottom of the pile of notes, “it’s on the way back to Ravenclaw tower anyway.”

“What, by yourself?” asked John.

“Might as well avoid confirming the teacher’s suspicions. I can sneak back in tonight and put them right back on the shelf… how else will I get back to my own bed?”

“Oh I… I guess that’s true, isn’t it.”

“We can meet tomorrow after lunch to practice this elephant to mouse nonsense. I took the liberty of copying out your timetable,” he gestured to John’s book bag, “we both have a free class then.”

“Right, good idea.” John stood. He felt somehow bad about letting Sherlock return to his own tower by himself. What if he was caught by Filch?

“Hey Sherlock,” he said, “let me come with you, at least as far as the library. We can both drop off those books.”

“If you insist,” said Sherlock, “but there really isn’t much need.”

John knew that was true. With his invisibility cloak, it was unlikely Sherlock would be caught out of bed, in fact, having two of them under it would probably increase the chances of them being caught. Plus he’d have to make the return trip without it. But he just… didn’t want to leave Sherlock on his own.

“I’ll come,” confirmed John. And they headed out.

 

—

 

They reached the library and put the books back on the shelf in the restricted section without issue. John, however, did have to stop Sherlock from picking out another two volumes. Borrowing what they had already borrowed was more than enough. Sherlock just liked books, it seemed.

“I think we have one of those volumes in the library at home anyway.” He remarked.

“You have a library in your… never mind,” said John, both shocked and resigned.

John cast a disillusionment charm over himself and Sherlock donned the invisibility cloak and together, they left the library and proceeded down the hallway.

John felt a little bit jumpy. He felt naked without the cloak over him and Sherlock tucked in by his side. He kept as far to the side of the corridor as he could, almost stepping on a spider hiding at the foot of one of the suites of armor. John hoped the darkness there would conceal any movement that the disillusionment charm didn’t hide. They stopped at the top of the grand staircase. John would carry on to the next corridor then go up to the Gryffindor tower, Sherlock would head down the staircase and off in the direction of the Ravenclaw tower.

“This is it,” said John, “goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight,” said Sherlock, “see you tomorrow after lunch.”

“See you,” said John. He felt, rather than saw, the swish of Sherlock’s robe as he turned and climbed down the stairs. At that moment, Filch appeared below. It looked like he was passing through the entrance hall on an errand rather than just out on a patrol. He was clutching a scroll of parchment. John shrank back to the shadows. Filch wasn’t looking up, but John didn’t want to risk it all the same.

“Hey!” Filch yelled. For an insane moment, John thought he’d been seen, but he was out of Filch’s field of view, he crept forward, praying that he wouldn’t see what he knew he’d see.

“Student out of bed!” called Filch. As John crept forward, he saw Sherlock standing on the bottom step of the grand staircase. His cloak had malfunctioned completely, the bedazzling hex had clearly worn off as Sherlock wasn’t even remotely transparent. Filch marched towards the taller boy tucking the parchment under his arm, he grabbed him by an ear, pulling him down the last step and around.

“Oh you’re in so much trouble, aren’t you,” said Filch, glee in his eyes, “I bet you’re the boy stealing them books, I’m taking you right to the headmaster’s office. Maybe he’ll let us string you up by the ankles in the dungeons. Tell me, what’s your name, boy?”

“My name’s…”

John didn’t really think about it. He knew wandless, nonverbal magic was difficult. Required concentration and mental discipline. But he’d done it before in defense against the dark arts… once. Either way, there was only one chance to try this without giving away the fact that there was more than one boy out of bed and there was no time to reach for his wand, tucked away in his (now, almost empty) book bag. He pointed a finger at Filch and, thought… as loud as he could _petrificus totalus_.

It worked. The body-bind curse hit Filch right in the back of his head. He dropped Sherlock’s ear and his body went rigid, stiff as a board before he keeled over. Landing, with a thud, on the floor. The parchment fluttering to the floor next to him.

John didn’t wait to see what Sherlock would do. Didn’t even take the time to digest the fact that his curse had worked and that was actually pretty bloody impressive. He just turned and walked quickly away from the scene of the crime. The teacher that found Filch would be able to see that the curse had hit the caretaker on the back of the head and so, was clearly not cast by the boy he had caught. He wasn’t sure on what the punishment would be for cursing the caretaker, didn’t really want to find out. He intended on being long gone by the time anyone other than Sherlock came across Filch. He just hoped that both he and Sherlock could get back to their towers safely.

 

—

 

The regal-looking owl tapped on his window about fifteen minutes after John was safely back in his room. It held a note in it’s beak which it dropped into his lap before flying out the window again. John picked it up and unfolded it.

“ _Good shot. S.H._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Headmaster Dexter Fortescue was actually a headmaster from before Harry, Ron and Hermione’s time. I assume this particular Headmaster Fortescue is a descendant. Maybe the brother of the late ice-cream maker Florean Fortescue from Diagon Alley? Either way, it’s an old wizarding name and it fits. I didn’t want McGonagall as headmistress as she’s getting on a bit, she probably stepped down a few years before this story takes place but she’s still teaching transfiguration. I just can’t imagine McGonagall retiring from teaching completely.
> 
> \- There’s no evidence anywhere that prefects get their own rooms… in fact, there’s evidence against it because when Ron and Hermione become prefects in their fifth year, they stay in their own group dormitories. However, they get their own bathroom which is interesting. I’ve decided that the seventh year prefects and head boy/girl get their own rooms. Fairly common in HP Fannon because those shared dormitories really are a pain in the backside. Sherlock is not a Ravenclaw Prefect. He has much more important things to be getting on with and he thinks the points system is meaningless and juvenile, anyway.


	3. The Elephant in the Dormitory

“I have a very grave matter to speak to you about this morning,” said Headmaster Fortescue, his dark eyes solemn, “our caretaker Argus Filch has not been seen in the castle since last night. There isn’t much more to tell you all, but if any of you see Mr. Filch in the castle today, please inform a member of staff or one of the school prefects. Similarly, if you’ve seen or heard anything suspicious, even if you believe it to be a trifling thing, please come forward to a member of staff.”

Fortescue sat back down in his seat amidst the buzzing of the student body.

“Filch is missing?” Mike Stamford murmured.

“Yeah, weird. I wonder what happened,” replied Molly.

“Maybe he accidentally got trapped in one of those bloody manacles he’s always on about. I wonder if they’ve checked the dungeons,” scoffed Mike.

“Don’t be silly, the ghosts would have helped search the whole castle last night,” said Molly.

John didn’t join in their conversation. He had hit Filch with a full-body bind curse and left him with Sherlock. What on earth had Sherlock done with Filch after he’d left? John had assumed he’d left him there on the floor of the entrance hall. He’d received an owl from Sherlock not twenty minutes afterward. That meant that Sherlock couldn’t have done anything (unless he’d taken Filch to wherever his owl was, probably his own dormitory) that had taken him more than, say, ten minutes. John looked over at the Ravenclaw table. Sherlock was there with a few other students, picking at his breakfast with a far-away look on his face.

 _Sherlock._ John knew it was silly, telepathically trying to catch the other boy’s attention. But he wanted to talk to him, at least catch his eye before he went away for his morning classes. If Sherlock felt John’s eyes on him, he didn’t do anything about it. Just kept eating his breakfast mechanically. Would he really cause Filch to go missing (John didn’t really want to think about him doing anything else) just because he was caught out of bed?

“You alright, mate?” asked Mike, nudging John in the side.

“I’m fine,” said John, “just worried about… transfiguration.”

Technically it was true, he supposed. Maybe he should talk to one of the teachers about what he knew. The other Ravenclaw boys would know Sherlock had been out of bed these last two nights. Surely they’d say something to the teachers. Running about the castle nicking books was one thing. Would Sherlock really take it so far? What on earth would he have done with an immobilised Filch anyway? Maybe something else had happened to him?

“You’ve got that Sherlock guy, don’t you?” said Mike.

“What?”

“For transfiguration partners. The mouse-to-elephant project.”

“Oh yeah,” said John, “we’re practicing at lunch today, I think.”

“I’ve got Anderson,” said Stamford, gloomily, “I mean, we get on alright. Don’t make too bad a team, to be honest. He’s actually not too daft either, good at putting stuff together. But he’s pretty hopeless at transfiguration. Worse than me if you can believe.”

“Well, all he’s doing is supervising while you practice,” said John diplomatically, trying to get his mind off Sherlock, at least for the duration of this conversation.

“Yeah, I just wish I’d gotten someone who was better at it than I am, then I could get some help.”

“ I don’t think Sherlock will be much help to me,” said John, “unless making fun of how useless I am is going to help me learn.”

“Don’t worry about it, John,” said Molly, “you’re great at charms and defense, you’ll figure out transfiguration too. At least you’re not in my potions class.”

“Potions?” asked John, trying to keep the conversation going, “you’re in the extended class, aren’t you?”

“Yeah,” said Molly, gloomily, “all sorts of extra projects. Trust me, transfiguration is a walk in the park by comparison.”

 

—

 

John felt a nervous pang as he headed out into the grounds after lunch. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten so many jam rolls. He squared his shoulders, took a breath and headed over the rolling lawn to the tall dark figure standing next to the elephant.

“It’s trunk isn’t twitching,” said Sherlock, once John had reached him.

“Sherlock,” said John, nervously. How on earth was he supposed to broach this.

“Yes,” said Sherlock absently, throwing another spell at the elephant. It’s trunk twitched. Sherlock looked thunderous.

“The caretaker… Filch… last night. You don’t know what happened to him, do you?” stumbled John.

“I left him at the bottom of the stairs. It seemed someone had cast a full body-bind curse on him," said Sherlock, not looking away from the elephant.

“You didn’t…”

“Have anything to do with his disappearance? Obviously not” Sherlock turned to face John, “There wasn’t even any point to wiping his memory. He asked me who I was right before the spell hit him.”

John stood firm under Sherlock’s gaze, “He did, didn’t he.”

“And I sent you a note with Gladstone, my owl, once I was safely back in my dormitory.”

“You did.”

“You can’t honestly think I had something to do with him going missing, do you? There was no time between you leaving and my traveling up to Ravenclaw tower and sending you that owl for me to kill him, transfigure his body to bone and hide him somewhere in the castle. Lack of motive, aside.”

“Of course not,” said John. Sherlock was right, of course, though it sounded like he had thought a little too much about it… “Then where did Filch go?” he asked.

“I have a few ideas,” said Sherlock, “seven, to be precise. I examined the entrance hall on the way down here. No evidence of a struggle or a fight. But after that body-bind curse, there wouldn’t be, would there. Clearly something else is going on. Though, Fortescue could be lying and Filch isn’t missing at all.”

“Why would Fortescue be lying?” asked John.

“Well, as I said, clearly something more is going on. The question is what,” Sherlock turned back to his elephant and eyed it with distaste, “but one project at a time, did you bring your mouse?”

 

—

 

John hadn’t mentioned Filch to Sherlock again. To be honest, he was worried that Sherlock would take on the investigation into his disappearance as yet another personal project. Besides, as he reminded himself, they weren’t there to look into missing caretakers or even to figure out how to turn themselves into animals. John had looked at the notes Sherlock made the night before and rather wished he hadn’t. The process was extremely complicated. He pushed all that out of his mind and focused just on his mouse. Which, by the end of the hour, he had successfully managed to turn into an elephant (free of twitch, unlike Sherlock’s) and back again. Though the mouse’s skin did look a little baggier than it had before he started, but he chalked that up as a victory.

John watched Sherlock work the transfiguration again. It was amazing watching him work. His clever fingers flicking his wand in intricate little shapes. It was as though he was born with a wand in his hand. Sometimes it seemed that the force of his whole body wielded the magic, like it flowed though his blood and out through the point of his wand. It was mesmerising.

“John?” asked Sherlock.

He blinked, “what?”

“I asked if you thought this elephant was convincing.”

“Oh,” John hadn’t even noticed him speak. He forced his eyes away from Sherlock and on to the elephant instead. It looked fine, “I think you’ve got it this time, yes.”

“Excellent,” said Sherlock, “now to change him back.”

He set to work again and John sat,wrapping his arms around his knees, to watch. Sherlock didn’t need assistance, he never even came close to missing a step in the process.

Once he was done, they placed the two mice back inside the cage and sat together on the grass. It was a beautiful day, which was rare, and John was enjoying the sunlight, He wondered if Sherlock would freckle from it. He doubted anything as trivial as sunlight would affect Sherlock’s porcelain skin.

“We shouldn’t sit together for too long, not if we’re going to continue on our project.”

“Right, of course,” agreed John, “it’s kind of nice though. Spending time together without sneaking about under cover of darkness like we’re having some kind of illicit affair. Makes it all seem… real”

Sherlock scoffed, “some of the Ravenclaw boys think my absence means that I must have found myself a girlfriend. Either that, or I’m running off with Victor Trevor.”

“Did they say something to you?” asked John.

“No, I observed,” said Sherlock.

“Scary ability, that,” said John, “I can’t believe you got so much out of me just from looking. Is it to do with magic?”

“Magic? No. No divination involved, I just look for clues, learn things about people. It’s surprising what people can give away by the parchment they use, the wand they carry, the words they say, or don’t say. The main reason my absence from my dormitory hasn’t been reported to staff is that everyone has their secrets, John. The Ravenclaw boys know I know things about them. They’re not stupid… well, Anderson’s stupid. But they all know better than to get me into any trouble.”

“But Filch has gone missing.”

“They’re Ravenclaws, not Gryffindors,” said Sherlock, smiling, “they’re smarter than they are brave and chivalrous. We can’t all be knights.”

John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was implying he was a knight, or that Gryffindors were stupid, so he let it slide.

“See you tonight?” asked Sherlock, “usual place?”

“Fine by me, agreed John.

 

—

 

With Transfiguration homework out of the way, John and Sherlock dived into the work that night. The two of them on John’s bed taking the first tentative steps towards human to animal transformation. The process was complicated and long. Sherlock seemed to understand all of it, John got a bit muddled about a third of the way through, but resolved to cross each bridge as they came to it. Sherlock was impatient to begin. As he read through the instructions of the first steps of the process, he became more and more excited about what they were about to embark upon. He paced across the bedroom flinging notes as he went, eventually kicking off his shoes and the outermost layer of his robes (the one with the high collar) and rolling up his sleeves.

“There is simply no way to tell if the first few steps work!” he said, animatedly, “that’s why it’s so dangerous, you just have to trust you’ve done it right!”

“Surely we’ll be able to feel something,” argued John, still sitting on the bed, watching the madman pace from one side of his room to the other. His pale arms were lean and strong, like his hands.

“Well, there’s only one way to find out, I suppose,” said Sherlock, dropping back down onto the bed, next to John.

John could feel the warmth from his body, he was so close.

“Are you ready?” John didn’t know if he was ready, but he knew he trusted Sherlock. Trusted his mad brilliance. He looked into his eyes and swallowed.

“Yes,” he said.

They performed the first spell, and, excited, Sherlock insisted they move on to the second and then the third. The spells were primarily to fortify the internal organs and the brain so that they would be able to transform without damage or loss of faculty. If one was transforming into another state on a regular basis, it was, apparently, important not to lose humanity in the process.

When Sherlock suggested they move to the fourth spell, John held up his hand.

“No more, Sherlock,” he said.

“Why not?”

“Because it’s late, I feel like half my magic has been drained and I’ve got Quidditch in the morning, you’ve got your potions club... You can’t get the whole job done in one night. Not even a genius like you could do that.”

Sherlock lowered the parchment he’d been holding. “You think I’m a genius?” he asked.

“Oh, um… sorry. I’ll shut up.”

“No it’s… it’s fine,” he said, his eyes shining a little.

John wondered how often Sherlock was called a genius. Considering Mycroft’s reputation, probably not often. Sherlock loved to prove he was clever. But it sounded like Mycroft loved to prove it even more. John had done a little research into the Holmes family the previous day. He wasn’t stalking, just intrigued. There was a lot to know and John didn’t like to be kept guessing. The boy in his room was clearly a genius and, at risk of over-inflating his head completely, John was happy to acknowledge it.

 

—

 

With no one guarding the halls, John permitted Sherlock to head back to his own common room without an escort. John worried that whoever had nabbed Filch was still at large so Sherlock was under strict instructions to send word with his owl, Gladstone, when he was safely back in his dormitory.

John spent some time tidying up after Sherlock had left. There were pieces of parchment (some they still needed) all over his room. But aside from the paper, no other proof that another boy had been in his room. John picked up another roll of parchment and turned it over in his hands. Sherlock’s handwriting was atrocious. Except for the headings of the texts which were fantastically calligraphic with long looping letter G’s and Y’s and some of the most elegant S’s John had ever seen. He ran a hand over the heading and then down over the main body of text which resembled chicken scratches. It was like Sherlock had gotten too excited to care what the rest of the text looked like. Getting the notes down was the most important thing. John put the rolls of parchment back in the chest by the foot of his bed, underneath his spare robes. Then, looking around, all the evidence that remained was just the rumpled bedlinen.

John sat down on his bed and ran a hand over the surface of the duvet, a patch was still warm from where the other boy had sat, just minutes ago. It was remarkable, Sherlock took up so much space when he was around. Not because of his size, but just because all attention must be drawn to him at all times. Like an elephant in the bedroom. He couldn’t be ignored. John never felt like his room was too large for him before, but now it felt cavernous.

He stood, taking the duvet with him and perched on the windowsill, looking out over the dark castle. His room was facing the wrong way, he couldn’t see Ravenclaw tower from this angle. He wished he had his own broom so he could fly out over the castle and see Sherlock return to his own dormitory. It wouldn’t be much longer before Gladstone arrived. John hated to admit it, but he wanted to see how long it would take for the owl to get to his window. He knew Sherlock wasn’t to blame for Filch’s disappearance, but he was curious all the same. He pulled the duvet up to his neck and inhaled deeply. The night was warm, but there was a breeze coming of the hills on the other side of the valley.

A few minutes later, Gladstone flew around from the other side of the tower and into John’s window. He dropped a note into John’s lap and settled on the windowsill. John reached up and patted the owl, it’s feathers impossibly soft. Gladstone nipped at his finger affectionately. Then John reached down and unfolded the note.

 _“Go to bed, John. S.H.”_ it read.

John smiled, ripped off a piece of the nearest parchment and wrote a reply,

_“Goodnight, Sherlock.”_

He gave his own note to Gladstone who flew out the window again. John shut the window, took the note from Sherlock and the duvet and went to bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- John loves Jam. I love fanon. Golly gosh  
> \- Gladstone is the name of John’s buuldog in ACD canon and the Robert Downey Jr/Jude Law films. The name comes from the four time Prime Minister William Gladstone (under Queen Victoria) who actually looked rather like a bulldog. Anyway, the name’s getting used again. I love the idea of an owl with the name Gladstone. So regal!  
> \- The process of becoming an animagus has never really been detailed in any HP canon. The process I outline here is just deduction on my part, informed by HP fanon and canon.


	4. Half in Love

There was no sign of Filch over the next week and a half. The ghosts took over the night watches whilst the teachers and the Ministry tried to figure out what, precisely, had happened. John and Sherlock continued to meet in secret in the evenings in John’s room. John had stopped asking what the other Ravenclaw boys thought of Sherlock’s continued absence from the dormitories. One night they were so focused in their task that they stayed up well into the not-so early hours of the morning. Thankfully, the next day was a Saturday, allowing both boys to sleep in late and then get on with their other work. Thankfully, neither found the NEWT syllabus particularly taxing. Maybe their teachers were going easy on them… maybe John and Sherlock were just that clever.

They only had one more transfigurations class outdoors, then they were back in their usual classroom, Ravenclaws on one side and Gryffindors on the other… as though nothing had happened. John found it strange. Like he was back in some alternate reality where he and Sherlock had never spoken. Back with his other Gryffindor friends. In such a short amount of time, he felt like he had grown so much closer to Sherlock than he had in six years of friendship with Mike and Molly. Yet, he felt like their friendship was so unlikely. That he’d go back up to his room one night and it would be empty, he’d check under his pillow and there’d be no notes there. It was as though his mind refused to believe that his secret friendship with Sherlock was real. Like it was too good to be true.

John tried to focus on the squiggles and symbols Professor McGonagall was drawing in the air with her wand. They shimmered in the dark classroom, making the room a little brighter with each one she cast. John had already taken thorough notes on this from his textbook, but seeing the magic in action was invaluable. Sherlock sat on the other side of the room, he looked like he was looking straight at John… John shivered, looking back at him. But then John noticed, in the low shimmer of the Professor’s magic, Sherlock’s eyes were trained on the symbols at the front of the classroom. Disappointment rumbled through John’s gut. But it meant that John was able to study Sherlock’s features. It was strange, he kept noticing the other boy, he barely glanced at Mike or Molly. He knew their faces, could read their expressions in half a glance. But Sherlock, he could study for days. His cheekbones looked even more pronounced in the low light. The dim glow of magic suited his aristocratic features. John wasn’t really a big believer in the pure-blood thing, but in Sherlock’s case, he could see where the theory came from. His porcelain-white skin almost glowed in the light of the magic, his dark hair contrasted with it so perfectly. His hand, delicate but strong around his quill, the other flat on the table holding his parchment in place. The green-blue of his eyes flickering in the low light. John jumped, Sherlock was looking back at him. John held his gaze. His own blue eyes locked with Sherlock’s. The energy between them… John felt like it was palpable. _Hello Sherlock_ he thought. John knew Sherlock would be able to read his thoughts in his face. The corner of Sherlock’s mouth curled in an almost half-smile. A jolt of pleasure ran through John. John wanted to stand and cross the classroom and sit next to the other boy. He hated that they pretended to be near-strangers all day long. But he knew it was the best for their project. John quirked his own smile right back at Sherlock. Sherlock’s gaze slid away from John and back onto Professor McGonagall’s symbols.

John looked down at the blank piece of parchment before him. He hadn’t taken down so much as a single note. He struggled to focus so much in this class. He knew it was because of Sherlock. Beautiful, mad distraction that he was. John put his quill down. It had been two weeks since Sherlock had spoken to him for the first time. And John was already half in love with him.

 

—

 

John headed straight into his room after dinner. Usually he would wait out in the common room. Do some homework until he saw the portrait of the fat lady swing open and shut for no apparent reason. Sometimes Sherlock would sneak in along with a group of Gryffindors and tap him lightly on the shoulder as he passed. The new bedazzling hex had the cloak working at full efficiency again. But Sherlock was so good at passing unseen (yet still in plain sight) he didn’t always bother using it. It was amazing how Sherlock could blend in simply by ducking his head a little, as though his entire Ravenclaw identity could be shrugged off like an old cloak.

Sherlock wasn’t in John’s room yet. John felt nervous about having the boy in here with him, now. Really, nothing had changed between yesterday and today. Why was he so nervous? Well, John knew why, he was just too frightened to think about it. He bustled about his room, straightening the duvet on his bed even though he knew Sherlock would muss it up again as soon as he arrived. He fished the notes out of the bottom of his trunk and placed them in a neat stack on his sideboard. They really ought to get a desk in here, there were plenty sitting about the castle, unused. It wasn’t decent, the two of them on the bed together. Not decent at all. Where was he, anyway? Was Sherlock usually this late? John rifled through the notes again. They were coming up to the most exciting part of the process. Within the next two sessions, probably this very evening, knowing Sherlock, they’d be transforming themselves for the first time. Probably just one limb or perhaps a tail. Maybe even their heads. But they would finally find out what animals they would turn themselves into. John was excited and curious. He wondered if he would take the same form as his Patronus. An English Foxhound wasn’t really an exciting form to take, though it was probably very practical. He would be able to transform anywhere and not look out of place, even in the muggle world. He felt sorry for wizards who worked so hard on an animagus form just to end up as a phoenix or a dragon or something else completely unusable.

Where WAS Sherlock, anyway? He was never this late. He had usually bounced around John’s room, upended furniture and made so much noise John had to shush him multiple times, by now. Once he had nearly blasted a hole in John’s wall because John had made him wait a few minutes longer than he was accustomed to. It was like trying to contain an angry dragon in his room. John hoped Sherlock wasn’t going to transform into a dragon.

John managed to wait a full hour before he decided to go looking for Sherlock. He couldn’t get the idea of Sherlock succumbing to some horrible fate in the hallways, going missing just like Filch had. He was nervous enough sending him back to the Ravenclaw tower on his own once they were finished for the evening. He demanded an owl from Sherlock every night to make sure he’d arrived safely. John kept all the notes. They were stashed underneath his pillow. A collection of pieces of parchment which said things like ‘Goodnight, John’, ‘Go to bed, John’ and ‘Sleep well, John’. All written in Sherlock’s best, most curly, decorative handwriting. Like he lingered over the words as he wrote them. Like the notes to John were more important than the headings of the animagus notes. It was probably wishful thinking.

“Where are you going?” asked Mike, as John crossed the common room.

“Just going get some fresh air,” said John, vaguely.

“Be careful, mate,” warned Mike, “you don’t want to be caught out of bed after hours. There’s only about fifteen minutes left.”

“I’ll be quick,” said John, “don’t worry.”

John left the common room and picked up his pace, casting a disillusionment charm over himself as he went. He hated to admit, he was getting very good at them. Technically, he wasn’t breaking any school rules yet, but if any teachers saw him walking away from the Gryffindor common room at this late hour, they would know he was up to no good. John hurried on.

He reached the corridor that led to Ravenclaw tower within ten minutes. He ducked into an empty hallway to take off the disillusionment charm and then joined in behind a group of Ravenclaw fourth years on their way to the common room. _Ravenclaw_ he thought to himself. Sherlock did this all the time, why couldn’t John? He lifted his chin and relaxed his shoulders a little. Hunching forward without ducking his head down. Like he’d spent the last five years proudly, obsessively going over the same set of notes. He furrowed his brow, not too far. Just far enough so that he looked imperious. He tapped his wand over his crest, transfiguring the Gryffindor patch into a Ravenclaw one. And then, at the last minute, transfigured a knut from his pocket into a pair of glasses. He popped them onto his face just as he reached the door to Ravenclaw tower.

One of the fourth-year boys spent a moment thinking through the riddle before answering. Once the door was open, John bustled past them with an impatient huff. His heart hammering in his chest. None of the other students passed even so much as a glance at him. Once he was inside the common room, he headed straight over to a bookcase and picked out one of the books, looking down over his spectacles at it. He didn’t have much time. The school wasn’t so big, it wouldn’t take long for someone to recognise him as a Gryffindor despite the outfit and the glasses. He scanned the room, trying to figure out what to do next, where to go looking for Sherlock.

“Hello John,” said a voice off to his left. Sherlock’s voice.

John turned to see Sherlock sitting at a desk by the, now dark, window.

“Sherlock,” said John, relief flooding his veins. He looked fine. Not in danger at all.

“You were worried about me when I wasn’t in your dormitory at the usual time,” deduced Sherlock, “you came to see if I was alright.”

“Well… yes,” said John. It looked like Sherlock had worried him for no reason at all. He was fine. Better than fine. Why hadn’t he wanted to continue with the project? Why hadn’t he sent word?

John placed the book back on the shelf and ducked into a squat next to Sherlock’s chair, might as well not stand there like a red-and-gold beacon.

“Where were you?” he asked, irritation tittering at the edge of his voice.

“I thought tonight, I should get an early night. Save my energy. Get some of my potions homework done. I didn’t realise it would… worry you so.”

“Of course it worried me. We have a missing caretaker, in case you didn’t notice. What if you were next?”

“Me?” scoffed Sherlock, “I doubt it.”

“Sherlock,” said John, clearly angry.

“Let’s not have a row in the middle of a common room that you have no business being in,” said Sherlock, diplomatically.

“Not have a row… honestly, Sherlock, what did you think I would do?”

“Clearly, I have underestimated the stupidity and bravery of your house.”

“Don’t bring Gryffindor into this, Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. He just reached down into his bag and then thrust the invisibility cloak into John’s arms.

“Take this,” he said, evenly, “I’ll send Gladstone to make sure you get back to your rooms safely. Please don’t go chasing after me again. We can resume our project tomorrow night.”

Fuming, John took the cloak, barely ducking behind a bookcase to cast a disillusionment charm over himself and then throw the cloak on top of that. He tossed the pair of glasses across the table in Sherlock’s direction and headed back to his own common room.

It took him the whole walk back to Gryffindor tower for him to calm down. Sherlock was so rude and inconsiderate. He could barely believe the other boy’s nerve. Not bothering to tell John what was going on. That he was alright and would see him tomorrow. A simple owl was all it took. Though, John supposed, there was no agreement that they had to meet every night. Or even that John was in any way responsible for Sherlock’s safety in the corridors. Why shouldn’t he decide to take a night off and assume John wouldn’t worry. They were just working on a project together. But of course John worried. When John thought of Sherlock hurt or injured or missing… he couldn’t bring himself to dwell on it for long. Those thoughts were too painful. The whole concept was just not okay. And, John guessed, that was where the issue was. John wanted Sherlock safe, happy and in John’s room. On John’s bed. Shit. In John’s arms. So that nothing would hurt him or keep him away.

John reached his room, somehow. He couldn’t remember crossing the common room to reach it. Or even walking down the corridors. He leaned heavily on his door, clearing his throat harshly to get his emotions under control. He would not break down over this, he kept it together for his family when horrible things had happened to them, he would keep it together now. Chin up, Watson.

He saw Gladstone sitting on his windowsill looking into his room. Of course, he was still wearing the cloak, the owl couldn’t see him. He had half a mind to ignore the bird and let Sherlock do some worrying for a change, but the bird looked so helpless and confused at John’s absence that he eventually took pity and pulled the cloak off, depositing it on his bed. Then he took off the disillusionment charm. Gladstone, seeing John, rapped smartly on the windowpane with his beak and John let the bird inside.

“ _Sorry I worried you, John. See you tomorrow night. S.H_ ”

The note was longer than any other note Sherlock had sent to him. John’s resolve crumpled and he tore off a piece of parchment to scrawl a reply.

“ _No harm done, see you then_.”

He handed Gladstone the note and the bird took it and flew away, into the darkness.

John might as well get an early night as well, he supposed. That mad dash through the castle, plus a fortnight of some very intensive magic had really taken it out of him. Also, he supposed, a fortnight of Sherlock had exhausted him too. Both mentally and emotionally. He wondered what a solid month of Sherlock would do to him.

When he got into bed, the cloak slithered onto the floor. John picked it up and looked at it, it really was beautiful. He could feel the soft fibers of the Demiguise woven together. The tingle of Sherlock’s magic keeping it transparent. He lifted the fabric to his face and breathed in deeply. It was like the magic and Sherlock’s scent were all one intoxicating fragrance. Like books and the sharp winter winds around the castle. Electric like an oncoming storm. John let himself fall back onto the bed. The cloak on top of him, still bunched over his nose and mouth. He breathed in again, trying not to moan as the magic filled his lungs. He slept wrapped in the cloak. Invisible to the outside world but completely encased by Sherlock’s scent. Sherlock’s magic. Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I imagine that the seventh year transfiguration classroom has two banks of seating (lecture theater style) - one on either side of the room. The professor teaches down in the middle of the class. Which is why the Gryffindors and Ravenclaws can see one another from either side of the room. I think Flitwick's charms classroom looked like that in one of the movie versions of Harry Potter possibly? I need to check. I also don’t think there are very many students in the classroom for Transfiguration. No more than ten. But the students have retained the house divide anyway.  
> \- I thought about turning John and Sherlock into a hedgehog and an otter, but I really think it’s been done to death. Also, doesn't seem like you turn into the animal you most resemble when you become an animagus anyway. McGonagall is never described as catlike, after all. Rita Skeeter behaves like a nasty bug, but aside from her spectacles, she never really resembles one. I decided to side with the fandom on the John = dog (for a patronus, at least) and ended up going with a English foxhound. Foxhounds are very loyal and friendly, like John is. Mostly I picked this breed for John’s patronus because it gets sad if it doesn't get to go out on adventures. Much like John’s adrenaline junkie thing… I think I've decided what animals they become for their animagus form. If they manage the transformation, that is. We’ll see.


	5. Glorious Impossibility

They had transfiguration again the next day. John tried to keep the pathetic longing out of his eyes, tried to avoid looking Sherlock’s way. But then he worried that maybe he was keeping his eyes away from Sherlock more than was strictly natural. How much did he usually look over at the Ravenclaws? He chanced a quick look over. Sherlock was watching him. His eyes looking directly into John’s. John swallowed, his throat suddenly dry. He looked down at his notes again. It all looked like Gobbledygook. Was all this Transfiguration theory really so difficult? Whenever Sherlock was in the room, it was like his concentration was shot. Tossed to the four winds.

There was a part of John that was still mad at Sherlock for the way he treated him the night before. Though, Sherlock had never said they would be meeting every night. He had kept things very casual. And no one had ever elected John as the person who looked after Sherlock when he was out of bed at night. From what John could tell, he was out of bed fairly often. Why had John decided it was his fault if something happened to Sherlock? No wonder Sherlock hadn’t been too impressed at John showing up in the Ravenclaw common room. He must think him a little mad, panicking because Sherlock hadn’t sent him an owl. Though, John had to admit, he was impressed at his ingenuity getting inside Ravenclaw common room. Sherlock had taken a while to notice him and Sherlock noticed everything. Including the fact that John’s gaze had fallen back on to Sherlock’s face again. Shit. John tore his gaze from Sherlock and willed himself to focus on the class. Just focus.

 

—

 

“This is IT, John!” Sherlock stood on John’s bed, jumping up and down in excitement, “the animagus within us finally gets to take some kind of corporeal form!”

“I know,” said John, grabbing Sherlock by the ankle, causing him to topple down beside him, laughing. Sherlock reached for John’s arms and shook him lightly, the two of them lying side by side on the bed. John had never seen the other boy so manic, so excited before. Sherlock was having fun, it was clear that he lived for moments like these. The breakthrough, the moment he proved his cleverness. The nexus of his hard work.

“Would you like to try it first?” asked Sherlock.

“You don’t want to? I mean, this whole thing was your idea,” John knew how much this meant to Sherlock. How far they had come in such a short period of time. When they worked together, they seemed to just click. Going from strength to strength together. John sat up, using Sherlock’s grip on his arms to right himself. The touch was electric, despite being on the cusp of victory, John could think of many other things they could be doing right now instead of trying to become animagi. John tried to keep his mind from wavering.

“No, I want to see if it works on you, first," said Sherlock.

And that was Sherlock alright. Ruddy Sherlock and his scientific mind. Preferring to see his victory and observe it empirically instead of trying it for himself. Maybe that’s why he and John worked together so well. John couldn’t imagine standing by and letting someone else have a go first.

“Besides,” added Sherlock, catching John’s expression, “if something happens, I have the instructions to set you to rights.”

“Okay,” John agreed, “Now?”

Sherlock nodded, licking his lips. “Remember to focus.”

“Okay,” John took a deep breath, dropping his hands from the other boy’s arms. It wasn’t going to work, if he was distracted by the beautiful madman before him. All he could think about when he was touching Sherlock was Sherlock. Right now he had to go deep inside himself and fundamentally change inside and out. He focused, he pulled his thoughts deep inside of him. Took a breath and felt the transformation. Felt something change. He pushed at the back of his mind, something was niggling there, asking to be opened up. He pressed and pushed against it, forcing the change. It didn’t shift. Worry filled him, he didn’t want to push this too far. He stepped back from it, whatever it was, and opened his eyes.

“Well?” asked Sherlock, “did you feel anything?”

“Yes,” replied John, breathlessly, checking himself. He stopped. Looking down then looking over at Sherlock, “I think it worked, a bit.”

“You look the same to me,” said Sherlock, frowning.

John looked down again, “I think I have a tail.” he said, simply.

“Let’s see then,” and Sherlock was pulling at John’s trousers. Holy gosh. Sherlock was pulling down his trousers. Sherlock’s fingers were on John’s hips and they were tugging hard. John felt like he couldn’t breathe. And it had nothing to do with the tail he now had. John cleared his throat and pushed Sherlock back, trying not to be too urgent, he didn’t want to embarrass himself.

“Sod off, Sherlock” said John. Then, kneeling up on the bed he pulled his trousers down (at the back) far enough that a tail did indeed appear.

“Dog then,” said Sherlock.

John twisted to look, the tail was definitely a dog’s tail. Too big to be a beagle, but the same sort of colouring. John was willing to bet that it most definitely was an English Foxhound, just like his patronus. He was fairly happy with that, though, really. A dog was downright useful and this meant he would be able to go almost anywhere in his animagus form without raising eyebrows.

“Can I have another go?” asked John, “There was something there, I was pretty close.”

Sherlock nodded silently and John shut his eyes again. It was there faster this time. Something niggling at the back of his mind, he pressed against it. It held. He pressed harder, bearing his will against the boundary until it exploded open with a force that almost knocked him sideways.

The smells of the bedroom flooded his senses. His Quidditch robes, still sweaty from practice. The smell of the ink stain Sherlock had made on the bedspread. Sherlock’s smell. His socks were new, they still smelled like the shop. He could smell dinner on his own breath. John opened his eyes, wide.

“Hello!” he said to Sherlock, delighted. He hopped up off the bed and pointed at the other boy, “it’s you! Hello there! You’re my favorite! Hey Sherlock do you want to go for a run outside? Maybe you could throw something and I can jump up and bring it back. And then you could throw something else and I’ll jump up and bring that back too. Or maybe you can throw the same thing again. And I can jump up and bring it back again! And it will Never. Stop. Being. Fun! Hey Sherlock,” John bounded around, jogging in a small circle, “Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock Sherlock hey Sherlock come play with me, there isn’t enough mud in here. We should fix it. Are you hungry? I’m starving, let’s go find something dead and eat it and then roll in it, it’ll be amazing. You know what we should do now? We should go somewhere and get some meat. Are you okay? What are you doing? I’m so hungry, let’s go…”

Sherlock hit him with a spell and it all went dark.

 

—

 

John opened his eyes blearily. He felt surprisingly okay, considering. He reached back and found his tail had gone.

“You may have been a little enthusiastic,” said Sherlock, as John sat up, “pushed a little too hard on the dog’s mind. You need to be more careful.”

“Sherlock…” John breathed, sitting up, “that was incredible. You have to try it.”

“Are you sure?” asked Sherlock, a glint in his eye, “I’m pretty sure you wanted me to toss you something so that you could run and bring it back…”

John shut his eyes briefly, “if you breathe a word of that to anyone. I swear Sherlock, I’ll…”

Sherlock laughed, “save the dramatics, John. I want to have a go.”

“Well, don’t take it too far,” said John worried. What if Sherlock really did turn into a dragon?

“If you insist,” said Sherlock, “wand at the ready?”

John grabbed his mother’s wand and Sherlock’s eyes flitted shut. John breathed softly, watching Sherlock. He could almost feel the cogs in Sherlock’s mind whirring. That mind moving at immeasurable speed. Sherlock’s eyes moved a little under their closed lids. The fair skin of his face soft as he dedicated all of his energy into thought and magic. John liked watching him this way. Vulnerable and open and beautiful. Maybe this is what he looked like when he was asleep. John couldn’t imagine Sherlock sleeping. He was so focused right now, it was amazing. John wondered if Sherlock would even notice if he pressed his lips to that lovely, wide cupid’s bow.

John blinked, the cupid’s bow was gone. A black nose was twitching at him in it’s place. In fact, a fox’s head sat atop Sherlock’s body. Looking pretty small and hilarious. For some reason centaurs worked. The half horse half man thing. But a human body with a fox’s head just looked… ridiculous. There was no other word for it, really. John stared at the fox trying not to laugh… and the fox stared back. Had Sherlock noticed the change? Surely he had. The fox’s eyes looked at him expectantly.

“Looks like it’s working, Sherlock,” said John, very softly, conscious that he could easily scare the flighty creature, he wasn’t sure how much fox was in Sherlock’s head. Hopefully not as much as the dog had been inside his own, “your head, it’s in the shape of a fox’s head.”

Sherlock stared back at him.

“Maybe you could… go a little deeper.” The head was the most difficult part, after all.

Sherlock shut his eyes again and John waited, holding his breath. He could almost feel the unique shimmer of Sherlock’s magic in the air around him. He wanted to reach forward and touch it, it seemed so thick around them. Slowly Sherlock’s body began to shrink, transform down. Sherlock’s robes turned to a red-brown fur, but then something stuttered and the transformation stopped. John blinked at Sherlock lifting his wand, but Sherlock resumed transforming, back to a human this time. John gasped as Sherlock became Sherlock-shaped again.

“John,” he breathed, reverently, “we bend our will beyond impossibility, we defy the reality of our universe and it’s…” Sherlock allowed himself to fall backwards across the bed, his head hitting the mattress with a soft _whump_ , “oh John, it’s glorious.”

John smiled down at Sherlock. No fox brain then. That was good. Sherlock was breathing hard, he looked over at John and laughed. John felt the tension break and giggled too. Their laughter echoing off the stone walls of John’s room.

 

—

 

Sherlock stayed late into the night. Later than he ever had stayed before. They both practiced their transformations for hours. John approached his more cautiously, tapping on the doors and pushing on them lightly instead of barreling in with all guns blazing. It worked, he never fell too far into being a dog. Never over-reached again. Neither of them managed a complete transformation. Though, John got the closest, he was able to hold himself in dog form (well, dog with human legs) for minutes at a time before sliding back into human form again. He felt solid in his form. Even letting Sherlock scratch under his floppy ears. According to Sherlock’s notes, once they were more practiced, they would be able to transform between human and animal as easily as putting on or removing a cloak. And they’d be able to hold animal form just as easily as they held human form. John hadn’t thought much about what he would be able to do, where he would be able to go, once he was able to do this. The challenge of just learning to become an animagus was terrifying enough.

Once they were too exhausted to go on, they both collapsed down onto John’s bed.

“This is going rather well, isn’t it,” said Sherlock, lightly.

“Bloody marvelous.” agreed John.

“We’ll only need a few more practice sessions before we can make the transformation completely.”

“I suppose once that happens, we won’t need to supervise each other,” said John, his heart heavy. He enjoyed these sessions so much, he hated the idea of never really needing to spend time with Sherlock again. Though he could think of other things they could do together instead. He tried not to think about it.

“Go back to sleeping at night, how dull.”

John laughed, “I’ll be grateful for a decent night’s sleep, I have to say.”

“Unless we go explore the grounds at night instead.”

“Oh that would be fun, certainly. Maybe we’ll find Filch lost in the forbidden forest.”

“Stuck up a tree, maybe,” laughed Sherlock.

“…What do you suppose happened to him?”

Sherlock shook his head, “no idea, maybe we should do some digging, I’m curious.”

They lapsed into silence, John turning to look at Sherlock. Sherlock rolled over and looked back at him. His eyes really were beautiful.

“What is it?” asked Sherlock, his voice soft.

John hesitated, there was so much he wanted to say. This madman had opened his eyes to a world of magic beyond just his classes at Hogwarts. They’d gone and done this together because it was fun, because it was dangerous, because they could. John hadn’t realised how much he had just played his part here at Hogwarts, maybe he had always just played a part. The brave son, the good student, the loyal friend, the quiet Gryffindor. Yet here he was after only a couple of weeks, doing things that no other student in the school could do. Or would dare to try doing. John touched Sherlock’s cheek gently. His skin was soft and warm. It would be so easy to make another daring leap. Lean in and kiss this mad genius. John wondered what Sherlock would do. If he’d push John away or perhaps return the kiss. Maybe Sherlock was thinking the same thing… Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John, he looked like he was about to say something.

“I think your nose is still twitching like the fox,” said John, finally breaking eye contact and sitting up, an easy half smile on his face.

“Ah,” said Sherlock, closing his eyes in order to remedy the situation. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The words John speaks when he gets the dog stuck in his mind are almost word-for-word the same as what Sirius says when the same thing happens to him in the classic Harry Potter fic ‘The Shoebox Project’. If you love the Marauders or Sirius/Remus as much as I do, go find it and read it!  
> \- I thought it would be too easy (for me!) to have their clothes fall off them whenever they transformed so I just had the clothes kinda vanish when it happened and re-appear when they come back. Which is consistent with the Harry Potter franchise (both books and movies) except in one instance in Prisoner of Azkaban (the film version) where Peter Pettigrew transforms into a rat so fast that he loses the clothing.  
> \- Sherlock is a red fox. Fantastic, alert, clever, wary mister fox. Not a dragon, sorry Smaug fans.


	6. Suspicious Minds

At breakfast the next day, Headmaster Fortescue made another unscheduled announcement.

“I have received words from Slytherin house that seventh year student Victor Trevor went missing from his dormitory some time the night before last and has not been seen since. It is, of course, possible that Mr. Trevor left the grounds for some reason. He is of age and therefore free to come and go as he wishes. However, if anyone sees Victor, please alert one of the teachers.”

John’s heart sank. It had to be that night. The one night Sherlock had decided not to spend his time with John. If Sherlock and John had spent that night working on becoming animagi, this would have cleared John’s suspicions of Sherlock completely. Why had it been that night in particular? He wanted to believe that Sherlock had nothing to do with Filch, and now Victor vanishing, but the fact remained that there was still five (or maybe even ten) minutes unaccounted for on the night that Filch vanished and a whole evening for Victor. And Victor was one of Sherlock’s only friends. If anyone was going to question Sherlock over his evening activities (other than his Ravenclaw roommates and Filch) it was him.

The Hogwarts students were abuzz with chatter as Headmaster Fortescue sat down again. John overheard people muttering about the Chamber of Secrets. It was true that the last time a dissapearance like this had happened was the early 1990’s when the school was almost closed. For all John knew, the heir of Slytherin could indeed have returned. The Chamber had never been fully explained by anyone. But it’s victims were almost always muggle-born’s. Was Victor from an old wizarding family or was he muggle born? John honestly had no idea. Though, the jeans Victor wore under his school robes suggested the latter.

John’s eyes found Sherlock’s over at the Ravenclaw table. Sherlock was already looking at him. John tensed and stared straight back, his chin high. There was a wariness or maybe a sadness to Sherlock’s gaze that, even from this far, John could plainly see. Was Sherlock worried that John was on to him? Or did Sherlock suspect John of these disappearances? John felt a rush of fear mixed with affection for the other boy, he loved their time together so much, he didn’t want either thought to be true.

 

—

 

That evening, John waited for Sherlock in his room. He was certainly not going to go looking for Sherlock if he was late or missing tonight. In fact, he was almost more worried that Sherlock would arrive and he’d have no idea what to say. He couldn’t get Sherlock’s gaze at breakfast out of his head. That raw look that ought to chill his bones but, weirdly, just didn’t.

John jumped when Sherlock came into his room, the door opening and shutting swiftly. Sherlock had transfigured his Ravenclaw badge into a Gryffindor one and was wearing John’s glasses. For one second, John was distracted. He had to admit, it was a good disguise, even on Sherlock. The glasses suited him.

“Hello John,” said Sherlock, tossing the glasses onto the bed where his invisibility cloak still lay.

“Sherlock,” said John, not getting up from his place on the floor.

Sherlock sat beside him, “our snatcher has struck again, it seems,” he said, passing a hand through his already-rumpled hair.

“Yes,” agreed John, then swallowing his fears, he continued, “did you leave your dormitory two nights ago? After I came past?”

“Me?” asked Sherlock, “yes I suppose it would be natural to suspect me. Two people go missing in the space of a fortnight and both instances were marked by me not being at your side.”

“Funny coincidence,” agreed John.

“Not necessarily. For instance, have a think about all the other students that also weren’t by your side on the two nights people went missing. In fact, no one was with you on either occasion. You could have easily doubled back and done something with Filch after I’d left the scene. And the night before last, no one saw you after you left Ravenclaw tower, I take it. There were disappearances both nights you wandered the halls on your own after hours. Maybe this is all you, John.”

John went cold. It was true. In fact, Mike Stamford had seen him leave the common room and not return two nights before. He wondered if.. “It wasn’t me,” he said, shakily.

“Obviously,” agreed Sherlock. “There’s no motive… And you can get it out of your head that it was me. I was in my dormitory early last night and stayed there all evening. You can ask any of the other Ravenclaws. In fact, that dolt Anderson said at breakfast, it was a good thing I was safely in bed last night of he would have suspected my involvement.”

“So according to some Ravenclaw boys, you were in your dormitory. Are these the same boys who are too frightened to tell the teachers that you were out of bed because you ‘know things’ about them?”

John knew he was skating on thin ice, but he needed to know one way or another. Sally had spent the whole day telling everyone who would listen just how messed up Sherlock was and that there was simply no other explanation for the disappearances. Maybe her relentless beliefs had sunk in. It hurt John but he was unable to shake this feeling that Sherlock was in some way involved. How many other schemes did the boy have running? Why become an animagus at all? Why John?

“How dare you,” said Sherlock, darkly, rising to his feet, “why on earth would I want to hurt Filch? Why on earth would I snatch up Victor?”

John stood as well, “Sherlock,” he said, softly. Sherlock was angry, his eyes piercing into John with pure fury.

“Victor is my friend,” Sherlock snapped, “he is one of the only people that has stood by me all these years at Hogwarts. Not kept secrets or lied to me or called me a freak behind my back. How dare you insist that I was in any way involved in his disappearance just because I have a penchant for breaking school rules. Because I’m a little different.”

John’s heart sank, he knew Sherlock was right. There was no more motive for Sherlock being involved in these disappearances than there was for John’s involvement. Sherlock had trusted John, why couldn’t he do the same? And now John had put his foot in it, Sherlock was in a towering rage, all the anger and frustration at students like Sally and Anderson directed at him.

“I’ll leave you to your deductions,” said Sherlock, snatching up the invisibility cloak from the bed and throwing it over himself, “I am sure Headmaster Fortescue will enjoy listening to your findings, your deductive mind is clearly more than up to the task of solving these disappearances. Even if the ministry’s isn’t.”

And with that, he stormed out of John’s room. John followed him, speechless, out into the common room. A table was pushed aside as Sherlock moved past it, the fifth-year sleeping on her notes was woken up. She jumped and grabbed her parchments. The portrait door swung open and then closed again as Sherlock left. John wanted to yell out after him, but the common room was full of people. Why hadn’t he stopped him before he left? In his mind’s eye, he saw himself grabbing Sherlock by the wrist, pulling him in and holding him, telling him he believed him and that everything would be alright. Letting all the anger drain away.

He turned and went back into his room. Shutting the door quietly behind him. He was angry at himself, felt like he could rip himself apart, he’d treated Sherlock so badly. Forgetting that Victor was one of Sherlock’s only friends. Perhaps his only friend, other than John. Oh and now John had ruined that too. Were they still friends or was Sherlock completely alone now? His heart ached for some way to make this up to Sherlock. Send him an owl, sneak into his dormitory and explain himself. Explain that he had been so very wrong and he should never have suspected him. That he trusted Sherlock. That he loved Sherlock. He’d do anything for that madman in the long black robes.

He spun around his room, looking for some way to fix this. Fix everything. Falling back onto his bed helplessly, he shut his eyes, trying to close out the anger, frustration, the feeling like he had hurt someone for no reason at all. He felt wretched. And there was the dog presence in the back of his mind. He guessed, that would never really go away. Sherlock had helped him fundamentally change his identity, everything who he was felt different now. He reached for the dog’s mind, opened the door between the two sides of himself and slipped inside. He felt the paws, the tail, the sniffing nose, the fur. He rolled into a small ball, completely in dog form for the first time ever. He knew he’d made the change seamlessly. He didn’t have to open his eyes and check. It just felt complete. Like he’d settled around a completely different shape that fitted him perfectly. That was him, just a little different. It was hard, holding that form. But the dog’s mind was simpler. There was no regret or sadness, no self-hatred. Everything was safe. He felt okay like this. In his human form he would never have known that Sherlock had been here, but in this form the room smelled so strongly of that rich, rolling smell. Sherlock. John huffed tasting the air on his tongue. He pulled himself into a tighter ball and tried to push out the human. He didn’t want it. He didn’t want to feel, to think. He wanted numbness, quiet, unfeeling silence.

 

—

 

John was human form by morning. He guessed he had slipped back once he’d fallen asleep. Keeping the dog form was like holding his robes down in a heavy wind. Possible, but bloody difficult. Sherlock wasn’t at breakfast that morning. John was used to trading at least a cursory glance with Sherlock every morning and it was strange not seeing him over at the Ravenclaw (or occasionally the Slytherin) table. Victor Trevor was still missing as well. The Slytherin seventh year students sat in their usual cluster, a space on the bench left vacant for him. Victor, a prefect, was fairly well liked, everyone was talking about his disappearance. There were worries being traded that the school might be closed if he didn’t show up soon. Losing a member of staff was one thing but a student, especially one as popular and charismatic as Victor, was a big deal. There was no empty space being left aside for Sherlock. The Ravenclaws didn’t even seem to notice that he’d skipped breakfast. John wasn’t sure whether it was normal for Sherlock to miss meals. He’d only been paying attention since they had become friends. Granted, he hadn’t been able to keep his mind off Sherlock since that point, but he had no idea what his habits were outside of these two weeks.

 

—

 

John didn’t start to worry about Sherlock until he was in Transfiguration class. Sherlock hadn’t been in the Great Hall for lunch, though that wasn’t unusual. John actually felt a stab of irritation run through him when he didn’t see Sherlock at the Ravenclaw table. How long was he going to keep sulking about this? Their little disagreement didn’t mean that John now _owned_ the Great Hall… but when Professor McGonagall asked about his whereabouts in Transfiguration class and the Ravenclaws told her he’d not been seen by anyone since the night before, John’s heart sank. It was just like Sherlock to go running off after some mystery and get caught up in it himself. McGonagall noted down the fact that Sherlock wasn’t in class, but if Victor Trevor was any guide, the teachers wouldn’t alert the school for at least another day. McGonagall’s face was pensive and worried. Molly looked concerned too, at least John wasn’t the only one. John didn’t take in a word of what went on in that class, nor his next one.

The butterflies gnawing into his stomach and by the time he reached the Great Hall for dinner, he doubted he’d be able to get a single bite down. As soon as he entered, his eyes flew to the Ravenclaw table and his heart sank. Sherlock wasn’t there. If something had happened to him because of their argument… well, John would never forgive himself. It was simple as that.

He turned and headed back to the Gryffindor common room, the thoughts in his head buzzing around like a swarm of bees. He wasn’t even sure how he got there, but when he snapped out of his dark thoughts, he was sitting on his bed again. If only he could somehow trace Sherlock’s steps from when he left this room, the last place John (or maybe anyone) had seen him. If only… it hit him. _Watson, you idiot_ , he thought to himself. He closed his eyes and reached inside himself. Reached for the English Foxhound and found that this time, it was easier to find the dog. He changed. Just went far enough for his head to transfigure. It was almost impossible to hold it like this for long, but he took a deep breath, sorting though the sea of scents and fix on Sherlock’s. He had already half-memorised it anyway. He took a deep breath and let his head change back with a faint ‘pop’.

It was impossible to change into the dog, even if it was just his head, much inside the castle. He chanced it at the portrait of the fat lady, just long enough to follow the scent left instead of right. Changing back, he headed off down the corridor. Most of the students were at dinner, but there were always a few stragglers and it was prudent to stay as inconspicuous as possible. He wished he still had Sherlock’s cloak. He wondered if it would still work if he went dog whilst wearing it. When he reached the landing at the end of the fork, he saw a seventh year Slytherin by the window. She was talking to the potions teacher, John wasn’t sure what his name was. In fact, John didn’t know much about the professor, he had dropped potions before he had taken up the job, but John decided to play it safe. He ducked down and pretended to re-lace his shoes. It was probably really obvious, a seventh year re-tying their shoes without magic. It didn’t matter, the professor and the student moved on and John was able to transform enough to catch the scent down the stairs. As he reached their foot and walked out into the entrance hall, he didn’t need to transform to know that Sherlock had left the castle by the main door. Swiftly, he sneaked out and ducked to the side, hoping the groaning sound of the heavy oak doors would go unnoticed.

He sat on the grass beside the door. In the fading light he shut his eyes and let his head fall back onto the hard stone of the castle wall. He took a breath and another, gripping and relaxing his right hand in turn, trying to calm his frantic thoughts. Reaching inside his mind he felt the dog hiding there and stepped inside. Each time he did this, it seemed a little easier. But he still had to push, he was consumed with the raw desire to follow Sherlock’s scent. To find Sherlock no matter what. He let the desperation power his will and he sank further and further into the dog until it consumed him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Chamber of Secrets was set in 1992-1993. I know, time flies when you’re reading fanfiction, right? Hopefully that fact makes some of you feel as old as it does me. Goodness.  
> \- “Going dog” is another reference to ‘The Shoebox Project’. Have you read it yet? Get on with it.


	7. The Fox and the Hound

The dog ran out across the school grounds, his nose to the grass. He followed the scent easily, it hadn’t rained since two nights ago so there were little other scents crowding it out. Just the spiders, the rain, the students, the sweaty Quidditch players, the groundskeeper… he followed Sherlock’s scent _his_ scent through the others. Straight across the grounds until he reached the edge of the forbidden forest. The scent stopped there.

_Now what_ , the dog wondered.

But then there was a smell there he recognised. An impossibly sweet, delightful scent. He knew it from his bedroom. Hadn’t really thought about what it was. Where it had come from. It had been so faint in his bedroom, the whisper of a breath. Here, at the edge of the forest it was intoxicating. He huffed an almost-laugh when he realised. It was the smell of the fox. Fox Sherlock. That light, delicate face, the dark eyes and twitchy nose. The dog lowered his nose again and followed it into the darkness.

The forest was a riot of sensations. Sound, smell, taste. The dog lost the scent of the fox briefly because he didn’t trust himself to go near a hedgehog carcass which was in it’s path. When he found it again, the scent was stronger, more heady. He tried not to follow it too fast, tried not to risk losing it between the other scents of the undergrowth. The fox must have been darting about the forest for hours, the trail went from random point to point, back and forth over the same places. Each time the trail overlapped, the dog followed the stronger scent, hopefully cutting hours out of his pursuit. The dog couldn’t smell any other scents along the same line as the scent of the fox. Not being chased, then. What had he been doing out here, running around all night? Eventually the rich, beautiful scent was so strong, the dog knew he was very close. His heart pounded as he crouched down by a fallen log and peered underneath. Two dark eyes looked back up at him. He huffed a sigh of absolute relief. The fox was terrified, the dog could smell it all over him. Was he hurt? It was impossible to tell. The dog shut his eyes and let his mind relax, taking it’s original form. It took longer than he was expecting. But eventually he breathed in and smelled nothing but the damp forest floor.

John opened his eyes, he couldn’t see Sherlock down under the fallen log, it was too dark. He pulled out his wands, chose his father’s, pocketed his mother’s and pointed it down into the dark space.

“Accio, fox,” he said, softly. The fox slid out of it’s hiding place and spun, gently in the air before John, it’s little legs writhing, jaw snapping and tail thrashing as he tried to escape. John hadn’t seen Sherlock fully transformed before, he made a stunning fox. John hit him with the spell and the Fox became Sherlock again, unconscious, battered and bruised.

John rushed to his side as he fell to the forest floor with a thump. He cupped Sherlock’s face in his hands, relieved that at least he was still in one piece.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice broken. He paused, pulling himself together and he shook Sherlock gently, “Sherlock,” he said, louder, his voice on the edge of desperation.

Sherlock’s eyes fluttered and opened, he looked up at John, blearily.

“John,” he breathed.

John didn’t really think about it. Relief coursing through his body and Sherlock there, alive. Safe in his hands. He leaned down, touching his forehead to Sherlock’s and took a relieved breath. He pressed a kiss, softly on Sherlock’s forehead.

“John,” said Sherlock, clearer this time, as John drew back.

“Sherlock,” whispered John reverently, and after a pause, “are you alright?” he kneeled up and started checking Sherlock over.

“What happened?” asked Sherlock,

“You’ve been missing since last night,” said John, noticing a cut across Sherlock’s palm. It looked nasty, he’d definitely have to go to the infirmary and get it healed up before morning.

“I wanted to check the forest for Victor,” said Sherlock, sitting up slowly and looking around.

John broke. Their argument. Sherlock had come out here alone because of him. To prove his innocence, find Victor, John should have been there with him.

“I am so sorry, Sherlock,” said John.

“I was angry, I transformed, I suppose I went too far. Let the fox inside my mind too much. I forgot who I was.” Sherlock shook his head.

John had read about this in Sherlock’s notes. An inexperienced animagus could trap themselves inside the mind of the animal they transformed into, forgetting who they really were, sometimes for years.

“You…” Sherlock paused, “how on earth did you find me.”

“Funny thing about English foxhounds,” said John, “we’re pretty good at finding foxes.”

“You transformed and… John,” Sherlock trailed off. Without John, he would have probably been lost in the forbidden forest for years, “Thank you.” Eyes wide, he pulled roughly at John’s collar and kissed him on the lips.

Sherlock. Kissing John. Sherlock. Adrenaline hissed it’s way through John’s veins. It almost made his body shake. Sherlock’s lips were against his. The kiss was hard, strong. Being kissed by Sherlock was like being kissed by no one else. Sherlock had him by the collar of his cloak, John lifted his own hands to cover Sherlock’s, holding those slender fingers in place. John sank forward, closer to him. Sherlock wasn’t letting go, his lips moved, sliding wetly over John’s. Carefully, slowly, John returned the kiss, relaxing his lips and moving them along with Sherlock’s. Sherlock kissed him deeper, John let him. When they did pull apart, Sherlock was gasping.

“Uh, you’re welcome…” said John, “I meant the rescue... but the rest as well”, he hoped that was clear.

Sherlock smiled at him, breathlessly.

 

—

 

It took them a while to find their way back out of the forest. John wasn’t game to transform out in the open again, now that they had seen the risks of taking it too far. He hadn’t really been paying attention to which way he had been heading whilst looking for Sherlock, he was so frantic. But it was fairly easy to follow his dog footprints back to the edge of the forest. The loamy soil cast into sharp relief by John’s wandlight. John helped Sherlock walk, he hadn’t eaten all day and probably hadn’t slept the night before either. He was weak and beaten up and John was taking him straight to the infirmary when they arrived back at the castle. As far as the Hogwarts staff knew, he was still missing like Filch and Victor.

By the time they reached the edge of the forest, John had Sherlock’s arm slung over his shoulder and was carrying most of the weight of the other boy. The contact was incredible. Every time Sherlock’s body slid against his own, it seemed to throw sparks. Even though there were many layers of robes and clothing between the two of them he could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s slender body. John couldn’t stop thinking about their kiss. Sherlock thanking him for finding him before it was too late. He wondered, was it an adrenaline reaction? Or did he mean it? He didn’t know if he really wanted to ask. He’d never really asked Sherlock any of the questions that would point him towards answers. Though, he’d not really asked _himself_ those questions yet. Well, not since Sherlock. Everything he knew about himself was scrambled. It was like he was one person before Sherlock and now, since meeting him, he had become another. Sherlock filled his life so much he hadn’t had time to sit down and figure out who he was now. He held onto Sherlock’s side gently, his fingers twitched with anticipation.

“Do you want to rest here?” he asked, Sherlock looked exhausted.

“Yes,” said Sherlock.

Reluctantly, John let go of him and the two boys sank onto the soft grass at the edge of the forest.

“You can heal me,” said Sherlock.

“No, we should take you to the infirmary.”

“Don’t be daft, John, if you heal me I can go and see Fortescue and tell him I was off visiting my brother who forgot to owl. If you take me to the infirmary, I’ll have to come up with some elaborate lie that doesn’t involve running around the forest as an animagus or Victor and Filch’s disappearances. The best lies are simple. Lies with too much detail look like lies.”

“Why not tell them about the animagus thing?” asked John, “I suppose we’ll have to register, but that’s not so bad. We’ll be the youngest animagi to register in quite a while, I’d guess. They would all think it… remarkable”

“No, we shouldn’t do that either.”

“Why not?”

“There’s a puzzle to solve, John. We don’t have everything we need yet, but once we do it’s just a matter of putting the pieces together,” Sherlock paused, watching a spider scuttle past his boot and into the forest, Sherlock looked off in it’s direction, into the darkness of the forest, “there’s nowhere else Filch and Victor could be, you know. Unless they left the school grounds. And I don’t think they did. They vanished too quickly, too simply. We’ll have to go in there again. Not soon, but once we have more data.”

John looked off into the forest, it seemed darker and gloomier than before. Maybe his eyes had adjusted to being out in the grounds again.

“I know you know how to heal scratches and bruises, John,” said Sherlock, “the whole school knows how good at defense against the dark arts you’ve gotten. I remember you casting that corporeal patronus in fourth year, a few grazes should be nothing.”

John knew Sherlock was buttering him up, but… damn it, it was working. Sherlock’s eyes were piercing, he took John’s hand and John’s fingers tingled, “please,” he said, “just in case we need this ace up our sleeves when the time comes?”

John stubbornly held his gaze if Sherlock wanted healing without any teacher involvement, he would just have to heal himself. Sherlock blinked once, twice, slowly, his eyes pleading.

“Oh alright,” said John, his resolve crumbling, looking down at their clasped hands and squeezing, gently. Though, he looked up just in time to see the triumphant look on Sherlock’s face that vanished as soon as it appeared.

 

—

 

When they reached the castle, John and Sherlock headed in the direction of Headmaster Fortescue’s office. John wouldn’t go up. Sherlock was to owl him once he had spoken to the Headmaster and was safe in his dormitory again. Sherlock had explained in detail how he wouldn’t need to contact his head of house as the password up to the Headmaster’s office would be his brother’s name ‘Florean’. John didn’t even know Fortescue had a brother. Sherlock knew so much more about the wizarding world than John did, it was remarkable. And the fact that he had remembered the brother’s name, too. Sherlock had, while they were walking, tried to explain to John about how he had a working model of the castle in his head and used it to remember things… something like that, it all sounded a bit too arithmanish for John. He liked spells, curses, counter-curses, things you could poke a wand at. Sherlock’s magic extended through every part of his mind and soul, not just through his wand-arm.

When it came time to part, John looked at Sherlock, he didn’t want to leave him alone. Look what happened last time he did that. He wanted to check again and make sure there was nothing amiss. No scratches or cuts he’d somehow overlooked. Sherlock looked fine, even his robes were repaired… surely John should check again.

“Stop fretting,” snapped Sherlock, curtly.

“I wasn’t fretting,” said John.

“Yes you were.”

John looked at him, eyes steady. He grabbed Sherlock by the wrist and pulled him closer.

“No,” he said, his other hand touching the side of Sherlock’s face, “I wasn’t.”

John’s heart was hammering in his chest. There was nothing to stop Sherlock stepping back, explaining that the thing in the forest had been an adrenaline reaction. And John would never overstep this line again. He might never touch Sherlock’s face again. Sherlock looked at John, the moment drew on, hanging thick in the air around them. An impasse that both boys were afraid to break (or not break, John wasn’t sure of that either).

Finally, John’s patience was spent. Resolutely, he slid his hand over Sherlock’s cheekbone and back, behind his neck. He pulled Sherlock down to his lips and Sherlock let him.

The kiss was softer, this time. Danger out of the way, Sherlock’s lips were soft on John’s. Sherlock slid his arms around John’s waist, he pulled the other boy closer, tight against him. He deepened the kiss, his clever tongue lashing out across John’s lower lip. John shuddered as Sherlock’s teeth followed, biting lightly at his lip. John, responsive, opened his mouth enough to slide his own tongue across Sherlock’s teeth and then to swipe across the tip of Sherlock’s tongue. Textured and wonderful. John breathed in, Sherlock filling his lungs. He pulled back an inch, tilted his head to the other side and then impatiently closed the distance again, pressing his lips to Sherlock’s once more, his fingertips squeezing at the back of Sherlock’s neck. His mind falling quiet for the first time that night.

When they broke apart, Sherlock stepped away and turned towards Fortescue’s office.

“I’ll owl you,” he said, looking over his shoulder briefly at the tousled Gryffindor.

John nodded, and, shaking himself out of his haze, cast a disillusionment charm over himself as he watched Sherlock go.

 

—

 

The note came not long after John got back to his bedroom. He could just imagine Sherlock hurrying through the meeting with Fortescue. The Headmaster blinking blearily, still in his pajamas.

“ _I have been blind as a mole, but it is better to learn wisdom late than never to learn it at all. S.H_ ”

John read the words over more times than he cared to admit, smiling. He put it under his pillow with the others, his fingertips brushing against the torn edge as he fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I think it takes a very skilled animagus indeed to keep a human mind when transformed. John’s obviously not there yet, he’s still ‘the dog’ when in dog form. And Sherlock lost himself completely.  
> \- I figure a fox smells like catnip to an English foxhound. Don't worry, no bestiality in this fic.  
> \- The ‘blind as a mole’ quote is from ACD Canon (The Man with the Twisted Lip). Alas, Sherlock. Sentiment.


	8. I don't mind/It's all fine

“Wake up, John!”

John felt his mattress tip to one side as Sherlock clambered up onto it. John knew it was Sherlock. Who else would be climbing onto his bed this early in the morning? Groggily, he reached for one of Sherlock’s ankles. He grasped at only air, he should probably open his eyes or something. He reached again and, this time, his fingers closed around Sherlock’s thin ankle, just below the hem of his trousers. He slid his hand up to the back of Sherlock’s knee, tugged at it and Sherlock collapsed onto him, one knee at either side of John’s waist. John opened one sleepy eye and smiled, warmly up at Sherlock.

“Good morning,” he murmured, quietly.

The atmosphere in the room shifted. John could see Sherlock looking down at him, his expression unreadable.

“John,” said Sherlock, “Attempting to search the forest two days ago was premature of me. We need to find something that connects Victor to Filch. I need… _we_ need data. And fast.”

“Straight into it, aren’t you?” asked John, softly.

Sherlock looked away, “I couldn’t sleep.” he confessed.

John slid a hand up Sherlock’s thigh then, digging his fingernails into the fabric of his trousers he scratched his way back down again. He could feel Sherlock shudder above him.

“So you’re here to get me out of bed and then we break into Slytherin and search Victor’s room.”

John snaked his other hand up to rest on Sherlock’s other thigh.

“Yes, time is of the essence we-” John gripped at Sherlock’s thighs pulling him closer, onto is erection. The sensation was dulled by the blankets, but John knew Sherlock would be aware enough.

Sherlock blinked down at him, “… are you wearing any pants?” he asked, distractedly.

“No,” said John, softly.

“But… we’ve no time, John.”

“It’s Sunday,” said John, “we’ve got the best chance of not being interrupted once everyone’s down at breakfast.” John reached up and hooked a finger into Sherlock’s collar, pulling him down, “If you’ve been stewing on this all night, then that brain of yours needs a break.”

Sherlock resisted.

“Please,” whispered John, “let me help you.”

The expression on Sherlock’s face was one John would never forget. It was only now, Sherlock saw how John had broke through his walls and entered his life. He let himself be pulled down, onto John’s lips.

John arched up into the kiss, his lips brushing softly against Sherlock's. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock's neck, tightly.

Had Sherlock been this close with anyone before? He seemed uncertain, John should ask.

Sherlock opened his lips, licking into John and rolling his hips over Jon's erection. John moaned into Sherlock's mouth, his mind, his thoughts, blanking out.

Then Sherlock's hands were everywhere. They were on his sides, sliding down and then up again to tug impatiently at the bed sheet.

They broke apart, John gasping for air.

Is this..." he began to ask.

Shut up, John," said Sherlock, fondly. His smile catching the angled morning light that fell across them both.

John looked up at him, dazed, the other boy was such a paradox to him.

Sherlock had the bed sheet down around John's hips in no time, his strong arms shoving the covers away. Not quite far enough to free his cock.

Sherlock kissed John's cheek, his jawline. He trailed the kiss down his neck, his tongue lashing across John's pulse point, fingertip trailing along his collarbone.

John ripped at Sherlock's cloak, opening it and allowing it to slide down his back, out of the soft sunlight and onto the floor. John tugged at Sherlock's tie, his fingers frantic. He was filled with an insatiable curiosity. What did Sherlock look like under all of these billowing robes? What was the person under the Ravenclaw uniform like. Once you stripped the logic, the deduction, the analytical brain, what was left underneath? He wanted Sherlock exposed. He pulled at the other boy, Sherlock let him. He twisted until Sherlock was lying on his back, John, his hips still under the twisted bedsheets, above him.

His raw expression gave Sherlock pause, "allow me," he murmured, his deft, clever fingers untying his tie. John busied himself unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. It was so fast. The unraveling of all those layers.

He pushed the shirt off Sherlock and there he was, pale and nearly-trembling underneath him. A silver phial hung around his neck on a thin chain. The phial’s silver and the white of Sherlock’s skin in stark contrast.

Sherlock took an unsteady breath, looking up at John, his wide eyes trusting.

John lowered his lips down to the other boy, the skin of his chest coming into contact with Sherlock's one exquisite inch at a time. Sherlock _was_ trembling now.

John kissed him, gently, sliding one of his hands into Sherlock's trembling fingers.

"Hey," he said, when they broke apart, pulling up off the other boy and propping himself up on an elbow "it's okay."

"I'm fine," said Sherlock.

"You're shaking,"

"Body's betraying me," murmured Sherlock, "I am not familiar with this order of human interaction."

John smiled, running his fingers softly through Sherlock's dark hair.

"I know," he whispered, sliding his fingers over Sherlock's cheekbone and back into his hairline again, "does this feel nice?"

"It's delicious." came the reply.

"Good. Let me..." John loved making Sherlock feel good and if this was what he liked, so be it. He kept at it, stroking Sherlock's hair, scratching his fingers back over his scalp. Sherlock closed his eyes, sighing and leaning into the touch. John stroked across his cheekbone again, then along his jawline and over his lips. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered shut as John repeated the pattern of slow touches. Sherlock would have already noticed the pattern, John didn’t doubt it. He pressed an index finger to Sherlock's cupid's bow and slid it down, Sherlock kissed at his finger as it passed.

"Kiss me," Sherlock whispered.

John leaned down and pressed his lips lightly to Sherlock's. They were soft and warm. Sherlock kissed him back, rolling his tongue across John's lips. John opened his mouth, his tongue sliding across Sherlock's. He kept his fingertips in the other boy's hair, straying once to slide along his jawline to his chin and back again.

John pulled back and watched Sherlock. He wasn't trembling any more. Sherlock reached up to him, placing a hand softly onto John's chest, over his heart. John wondered if Sherlock was checking his pulse. Elevated, no doubt. John let Sherlock stroke across his chest, watched as the pale, slender hand slid across his darker skin. He was fit, compact from years of playing Quidditch. He liked the way Sherlock's fingers moved over him. Straying just above his belly button then back up again to his chest and collarbones.

Sherlock pulled him down by the shoulder and kissed at his collarbone, his tongue sliding along it leaving a wet stripe. John shuddered, his hips bucking instinctively against the side of Sherlock's leg. Sherlock slid his hand around the back of John's neck and pulled him down for another lingering kiss.

When they broke apart, John could see a question in Sherlock's eyes.

"What is it?" he murmured.

"It's silly," said Sherlock.

"No it isn't," replied John, chuckling, "nothing about this is silly," he touched Sherlock's arm, lightly, "tell me. I can't deduce it out of you, can I?"

Sherlock shook his head.

“I don’t mind,” said John.

Sherlock closed his eyes, a hand on John's chest again.

"I would like it very much," the hand slid downward, "if I could watch you." his hand stopped, a thumb trailing over John's hipbone before he pulled it away.

There was a pause. John looked at Sherlock, his eyes still closed.

"You want to watch while I take care of..." John gestured to the bed sheet.

Sherlock opened his eyes, he locked them onto John's, "I would like to see that, yes."

John offered him a hand, palm facing towards Sherlock's face, his eyes dark.

"Lick," he instructed, softly.

Sherlock lifted a hand to John's wrist and drew the offered palm towards him. His eyes fluttered shut as his tongue trailed from John's pulse point up to his fingertips, then back down again, circling over his palm.

John hissed, dropping his head and trying not to thrust his hips against Sherlock again.

Sherlock made an amused noise, nipping his teeth along the side of John's palm and swiping his tongue across his palm again before drawing back.

"Thank you," murmured John. He picked at the bed sheet with his thumb and index finger. Watching Sherlock, he drew the sheet away feeling his cock spring free. He took his cock in his wet palm and slid down the shaft, then back up again, sliding over the head in order to get the moisture all over. Sherlock watched, mesmerised. John didn't want to tear his own eyes away from Sherlock's face. It was beautiful watching him so focused and un-guarded. John moved his hands slowly, lightly up and down his shaft. He didn't want this to be over too quickly.

"John," breathed Sherlock.

"Sherlock," replied John, Sherlock's gaze snapped back up to John's eyes, "do you like watching me?" he asked, glancing down at his cock and back up again. Sherlock followed his gaze down and then up again.

"It's remarkable how I different it is, watching someone else..." he trailed off, touching John's chest lightly with his index finger like he was made of glass. John tried not to lean into Sherlock's touch, though he couldn't help but tighten the grip on his cock.

"It's different for me too, having you watching," he said, "definitely more intense."

“Good?” asked Sherlock.

“Definitely good.”

Sherlock propped himself up on his elbow beside John, bringing his head in line with John's, "can I kiss you?" he asked.

"Sherlock, you can do anything you want with me, there’s nothing I wouldn’t let you ha-"

Sherlock's lips were on his, the kiss was rough and possessive. Sherlock leaned closer, John's cock was inches from the other boy's stomach. Sherlock gripped at John's shoulder, making it impossible for John to pull back. John moaned, his fingers twisting almost violently at the head of his cock. Sherlock let John go, stroking at his jaw, his kiss softening. He trailed his hand down, across John's chest and stomach, pausing just shy of his belly button. Sherlock broke the kiss, looking down. He ran a finger gently over John's hand. John slowed the movement so that Sherlock’s tentative fingers wouldn’t slip.

"God, Sherlock, that's.."

John stilled his hand. Sherlock's fingertip sliding it's way along each of his fingers. It was like John could feel the touch through his hand, on his cock. Sherlock’s slender fingers sliding gently across him. His entire body was on edge. He was sure Sherlock was close enough to feel his pounding heart, now he was the one almost trembling.

"Don't stop," murmured Sherlock.

"If I move I'm going to-"

"Then move," said Sherlock, closing his own hand over John's, forcing the hand up and over the head of John’s cock and then back down again.

The orgasm exploded through him, an intense golden beam of pleasure washing over his body. Thick spurts of mess soaking the bed sheet. John moaned, long and wrecked, arching forward and resting his head on Sherlock.

Sherlock's heart was racing too, John could feel it briefly between one jolt of pleasure and another. His body tensed and he moaned again. Sherlock let go, wrapping his arms around safer territory - John’s shoulders - and John collapsed onto him, keeping the mess well away from Sherlock's trousers.

"That was... good," said Sherlock, smiling, trailing a fingertip through John’s hair.

John giggled, "That was _very_ good," he agreed.

 

—

 

They had stayed like that, curled up in the half-light of John’s bed for a while. John could see the arousal tightening Sherlock’s trousers, in fact, he was thankful for it. It had crossed his mind that maybe John wasn’t someone Sherlock would be interested in like this. But the evidence was there, it hardly took any deduction. John wanted to ask him if he wanted to… well, do something about it. But the tentativeness with which Sherlock had been with John made him second-guess himself. So neither boy mentioned it. It seemed that Sherlock was content with John’s satisfaction. Which was fine. It was all fine. His orgasm had been so strong, John was content to lie there, boneless, for the rest of the day. Unfortunately, the bathroom called for him eventually. He enjoyed watching Sherlock’s eyes widen as he hopped out of bed and padded across the room to take his dressing gown off it’s hook. He liked being naked, but he liked Sherlock seeing him naked even more.

Sherlock hadn’t moved much when John dived back into bed again. John brushed his fingertips along Sherlock’s ribs.

“Enjoy the view?” he asked.

“I have no idea what you’re taking about,” said Sherlock, his eyes focused resolutely on the ceiling, fingers steepled under his chin.

John grinned, Sherlock’s eyes briefly flicked in his direction, then smiling, he leaned up and kissed John soundly on the lips.

“Hey Sherlock,” said John, after a few moments, reaching for the phial that hung around Sherlock’s neck, “what’s this?”

“Silver phial,” said Sherlock, his mind was clearly already back on the job of sneaking into the Slytherin common room. He batted John’s hand away.

“I can see that, obviously,” said John.

“It’s from my potions class.”

“Oh that’s right, you’re in potions, aren’t you? The class with the fancy name that only two students from each house are let into.”

“It’s _called_ the Silver Phials, John.”

“Oh, silver phials, that makes sense then. That you have one. So each student gets a silver phial when they’re let into the class. As what, as a reward?”

Sherlock sat up, “It’s tradition, John. I suppose it’s a reward, there are only eight of us in the class,” he confirmed.

John sat up too, he supposed they really ought to be getting on with it.

“Anything inside it?” he asked.

“No, not yet,” said Sherlock, smiling at him, softly.

John could watch that smile forever. Sherlock happy was a beautiful sight. He couldn’t help but smile back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- I don’t mind/It’s all fine… I couldn't decide between these two chapter names so I went with both. I don’t mind is from ‘Sign of Three’ and It’s all fine is from ‘A Study in Pink’ (like you didn’t know already)  
> \- I know that going from first kiss to jumping straight into bed is a bit of a trope these days but I just kept thinking to myself that these are 18/19 year old boys! What else would they do!  
> \- “It was only now, Sherlock saw how John had broke through his walls and entered his life” a quote very loosely paraphrased from the amazing movie Velvet Goldmine.  
> \- The Silver Phials thing is entirely my own invention. I imagine that seventh-year classes (especially the more ancient ones like potions) are all quite prestigious and steeped in tradition at Hogwarts.  
> \- I originally planned for this to be 12 chapters long but looking at the outline I just wrote… yeah, oops. It’s going to be a little longer than that. But I've figured out how it ends which is good!


	9. Circling Vultures

“Anyone can walk in anywhere if they pick the right moment,” said Sherlock, as they bustled down yet another dark, damp corridor in the dungeons. John was strangely nervous about their mission.

“It’s one thing getting into Gryffindor and Ravenclaw, Sherlock. This is entirely another.”

“Are you chicken?” asked Sherlock, flicking a glance John’s way.

John bristled at that, “Me? I’m a Gryffindor, Sherlock. I’m just trying to be practical.”

“Well, be practical and help me with this,” Sherlock had reached the end of the corridor and they both stopped to face a blank stone wall, “you’re a prefect, who sets the passwords for the common rooms for you to disseminate.”

“Well, the head-of-house...” Sherlock squared his shoulders to the wall, bringing his fingertips to his forehead and shutting his eyes, “So for Slytherin that’d be…”

“Araneae,” said Sherlock, clearly, dropping his hand again. His voice echoed down the deserted corridor.

John watched the wall, he was beginning to think Sherlock had gotten it wrong, but then finally, the wall vanished and the heavy green door to Slytherin’s common room appeared.

“Nice, yeah,” said John, “good guess.”

Sherlock cast an annoyed glance at John. Clearly he didn’t consider it a ‘guess’. It always threw John a little when he jumped to conclusions (that were always correct) like that. It was just another thing that made Sherlock amaze him, he supposed. John reached out and brushed his hand against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock’s glance lingered, “After you,” he said pulling on the large silver knocker and stepping back.

John headed into the common room and gasped. No wonder they had walked for so long down the dungeon corridors. They were beneath the lake! He could see the water just outside the windows. A fish swam past the closest one, John could almost hear the swish of the water as it passed. The common room itself was dark with greenish lamps and filled with low-backed leather sofas. It wasn’t light and airy like Ravenclaw and even Gryffindor towers were. But it was nice, homey, if a little dark. John supposed that was where Slytherin got it’s reputation from, though. A large silver Slytherin crest proudly hung above the fireplace.

“This way,” said Sherlock, quietly, leading John across to the staircase.

John felt Sherlock’s fingers close around his arm and tried not to lean back into him. Now wasn’t the time. They made their way swiftly up a flight of stairs and along the row of doors into the dormitories. The prefect’s dormitories were the last in the row, same as Gryffindor’s. John followed along as Sherlock checked inside each, poking his head in and glancing around quickly. They had reached the second-last room before Sherlock paused.

“This one’s Victor’s,” he said, quietly slipping inside.

John followed, hardly believing their luck, the boldness of their plan. They had walked in here as easily as if they were Slytherins themselves and, through luck alone, no one had seen. It was only a matter of time before some of the students returned to the common room after breakfast so they had to be fast. They had the cloak but it would be easier just to leave before they needed to use it.

“This room’s already been searched,” said Sherlock.

“Has it?” asked John, looking around. The room was messy, but no more than some of the other Gryffidor prefects’ rooms.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “look at the books, the last class Victor attended before he vanished was Potions yet his potions textbook is at the bottom of the pile. And here, shoes at the top of the pile of clothing, despite the fact that everyone takes their shoes off first. And here, the bedlinen is crumpled but not from sleeping on. The linen has been pulled back all the way, when one wakes up in the morning the linen is only ever likely to be pulled back enough to sit up unhindered.”

“So it’s already been searched, maybe the teachers? He is a missing student, after all.”

“Possible I suppose… unlikely that they would have made such a mess,” said Sherlock, hunching over a pile of parchment on a low sideboard, picking each piece up in turn.

John searched as well, methodically going through the pockets of Victor’s abandoned bag and clothing on the floor. It felt strange, he didn’t really know Victor at all. He’d never really had anything to do with him aside from saying hello occasionally, yet here he was going through his luggage. John had noticed a muggle photograph on Victor’s nightstand and wondered if his family was worried or if they even knew about the boy’s disappearance.

He paused, re-reading the slip of paper he’d found in Victor’s trouser pocket.

“Sherlock,” he said, after a pause, “I think I’ve found something.”

Sherlock hurried over and crouched down next to John, “a detention slip,” he said, shaking his head.

“Yeah, I mean, it links Victor to Filch, doesn’t it. He takes care of most of the punishments.”

“Of course,” breathed Sherlock.

“It says Filch caught him out of bed after hours in the… the restricted section of the library,” said John, squinting at the parchment, “that’s strange, I wonder what he was…”

John was silenced by Sherlock swiftly placing a hand over his mouth. There was talking and muffled laughter from the other side of the door.

“Get the cloak,” whispered Sherlock, dropping his hand.

John was breathless for a moment, his lips tingling. But he turned and wordlessly rifled through his bag looking for Sherlock’s invisibility cloak. He threw it over himself and stepped towards Sherlock (who was still looking at the piece of parchment) just as the door opened. One of the Slytherin prefects, Irene Adler, stood there.

“Sherlock,” she said, her tone conversational as she entered, folding her arms, “considering joining Slytherin are we? Seventh year is a bit late for that, don’t you think?”

“Never. My brother was in this house,” scoffed Sherlock.

“Well, seemed the only likely possibility. You couldn’t be _searching_ for anything. Enough students have already been through here. I caught Molly Hooper ripping apart poor Victor’s bedsheets looking for it.”

“Looking for what,” said Sherlock.

“My,” said Irene, she lifted her chin and pursed her lips, “you are late to the game aren’t you, Sherlock.”

“Ah… Of course,” murmured Sherlock.

John stood still under the invisibility cloak, trying not to breathe too loudly.

 

—

 

Somehow, John managed to sneak out behind Irene and through the common room to the dungeon corridor without making much noise or bumping into anyone. He threw off the cloak and headed down towards the Great Hall (and his breakfast) while he thought about things. There was more going on here than what met the eye. Why was Molly searching Victor’s room? His friend, fellow Gryffindor and just… honest, simple, carefree Molly. Maybe Irene was making it up? But if she wasn’t, what on earth was Molly doing sneaking into Slytherin? What was _he_ , John, doing sneaking into Slytherin? Sneaking into the Restricted Section of the library after dark. Though, he reminded himself, darkly, he and Sherlock weren’t the only ones doing that. Victor had been caught at it too. Why couldn’t everyone just stay in their bloody dormitories?! Was it really so hard?

But then, imagine if John had never broken any rules. If he’d ignored that owl Sherlock had sent him in the middle of the night. He’d not be friends with Sherlock, he and Sherlock wouldn’t have… whatever it was that was going on between them. He smiled to himself as he reached the Great Hall. Sherlock made him feel, good? It felt like he’d connected to someone very different. A ridiculous man that was probably quite lonely, really. It was amazing to be a part of seeing Sherlock slowly open up, become a friend. Become more than that? John didn’t want to think about it too much, but this morning was delicious. He wasn’t a fan of the words people gave it. Gay, queer, bisexual, invert… He didn’t realise he’d react that way to having Sherlock climb onto him when he was naked in bed. On reflection, he probably should have, he thought, ruefully. It was those damn cheekbones, the messy hair in the half-light, those long, slender fingers. John could remember with perfect recall the way they looked wrapped around his own hands while he fisted his cock…

With a jolt he remembered where he was. Standing by the Gryffindor table with a funny look on his face. He glanced around, cleared his throat and sat, nodding to the third-year next to him and grabbing the nearest piece of food.

 

—

 

John assumed that Sherlock would be back up in his room after breakfast, but it was empty. He headed back to the common room and sat by the portrait hole. He’d be able to intercept Sherlock when he came inside. He was looking forward to hearing what Sherlock had to say. When he sneaked out of Victor’s room Sherlock and Irene were still talking. Sherlock and Irene seemed to get on… rather well, really.

“Hey John,”

John jumped, he’d been so deep in thought he hadn’t seen Molly come in. Wait, Molly.

“Hi Molly,” he said, pulling a chair out for her and motioning her to sit.

“Off with the pixies?” she asked, sitting down and placing several heavy books on the table next to John, “well, probably not the pixies we dismembered in Defense Against the Dark Arts. I mean, because they’re dead and…”

“Not those pixies,” agreed John, hastily, “hey, that’s a lot of books for a Sunday morning.”

“Potions,” sighed Molly.

“That’s right, you’re in the fancy potions class with the funny name… Silver Phials is it?”

“It’s definitely more challenging than I thought it was going to be.”

“Can’t be that bad,” said John, hoping she’d open up more without him having to ask anything too specific, “who else is in that class?” he knew Victor was in potions too. As well as Sherlock.

“Um,” said Molly, “well there’s me and Mike Stamford from Gryffindor, Sally Donovan and Sarah Sawyer from Hufflepuff, Sherlock Holmes and Philip Anderson from Ravenclaw and Irene Adler and Victor Trevor from Slytherin.”

“Victor’s still missing, isn’t he?” asked John.

Molly nodded, looking down at her book.

“You haven’t… I dunno, got any theories about what happened to him, do you?”

Molly fixed him with a frightened, yet steady gaze, “what do you mean?” she asked.

“Look, Molly,” John took a breath, it was unethical, but he was going to do it anyway, wasn’t he. Damn Sherlock, “I heard you snuck into his room last night and one of the Slytherin students caught you going through his stuff. You know you’re not permitted inside another house’s own quarters. Or out of bed after hours.”

“I just wanted to check…” she stuttered.

“Check what?”

“Well,” she paused, looking around fervently.

“Molly, everyone’s worried about Victor but breaking the school rules like that is cause for detention. What were you doing in there?”

“Well, the Ravenclaw boy, Sherlock Holmes. He was Victor’s partner in potions because the other Ravenclaw boy Anderson refused to work with him. So Victor went missing, so horrible, he was nice. I liked him… and then Sherlock went missing. I thought that something had happened to him too, they were close friends. Maybe they got caught up in… but then Sherlock comes back again! Like nothing happened! Maybe Sherlock had something to do with Victor going missing. Maybe he decided to… or… He has to be involved.”

“So you went and searched Victor’s room because…”

“I thought there’d be something there.”

“What?”

“Something. That connected Victor and Sherlock and Potions. I… I’m not sure.”

“Did you find anything?”

“No,” she said sadly, “I didn’t find a thing.”

 

—

 

John knew that there was no way to prove that Sherlock _hadn’t_ faked losing himself in the forest. It was completely possible he’d been up to something else out there. This _had_ to have something to do with that damned potions class. Why were Molly, Irene and Sherlock all circling around Victor’s disappearance like vultures? Irene had said other students had been in there too. Looking for something. Molly had admitted to looking for something too. John didn’t want to push the issue too much with her, he didn’t want her spooked off telling him anything more till he spoke to Sherlock about it all. It was frustrating, there was one tiny piece of information at the center of all of this that would crystallise everything. Link all the pieces together somehow. And another thing. Why the restricted section of the library? It couldn’t be a coincidence that two potions partners had been sneaking about in there after hours within a week of one another. Victor had been caught, Sherlock (and John) had gotten away with it. They’d spent weeks learning to be animagi together, was Victor sitting in detention with Filch wishing he was doing the same? And why had Sherlock been so keen to learn that particular skill anyway? And the more that John thought about how he’d left Sherlock and Irene in that room together, the uneasier he felt. Surely Sherlock should be back by now. What was he _doing?_ Maybe Irene was responsible for Victor’s disappearance and now Sherlock would go missing too, for real this time.

John knew he was stewing on his worries and he really really ought to be outside practicing Quidditch or doing homework or just enjoying his weekend, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. He’d head out, throw on the cloak somewhere out of sight and go back into Slytherin’s dungeon to see what had happened to him. Maybe if he transformed he’d be able to catch his scent.

John stood and headed towards the portrait of the fat lady, one of the younger students came up to him and pulled on the sleeve of his robes.

“Sorry,” he said, not looking down, “I’m just heading out.”

“John, it’s me,” said the student. John recognised that voice. It was Sherlock’s. His eyes snapped to the other student’s and Sherlock was there smiling back at him.

John sighed with relief, his body sagging against Sherlock’s briefly. Thank goodness he was alright.

“My room, now,” said John once he had straightened up again.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Rather a LOT of exposition in this chapter, sorry about that. Next one will be more… you know. ;)  
> \- Case fic is hard, you guys… I’d be interested to hear some of your theories about what’s going on here, I’ve laid a lot out for you all to see. You should be able to start piecing my puzzle together.


	10. The Silver Phials

“Where _were_ you?” snapped, John, as soon as his door was shut.

“I was talking to Irene, obviously.”

“All this time?”

“No, I returned to my dormitory then went downstairs and had breakfast,” he shrugged, “I had to think.”

“And you couldn’t think with me nearby? I didn’t know if you were in danger or…” John trailed off, reaching for the bedpost. It had been a long morning.

”You know, John… most of the time I can’t think with other people anywhere near me. They’re annoying,” said Sherlock. John raised his eyebrows. “But maybe if I just spoke out loud, you could… I don’t know, you often do help me think.”

“Um, thanks?” John wasn’t sure if that was a complement. Sounded like it was maybe.

“So you questioned Molly,” said Sherlock.

“HOW… never mind,” John felt like resigning himself to the fact that Sherlock would always know what he’d been doing was probably best for his mental health.

“What was she doing in Victor’s room?” asked Sherlock, “Irene said she was looking for something but it doesn’t really fit…”

“She suspects _you_ , Sherlock,” John was frustrated, angry that Molly could think that about Sherlock. His Sherlock.

“Of course” murmured Sherlock, missing the tone in John’s voice entirely, “I went missing the day after Victor. She would have thought I’d suffered the same fate. But then I came back and Victor stayed missing. Logical, really. No one was with me for a whole day. I could have been anywhere, doing anything”.

“You weren’t though, were you?” said John, it wasn’t _really_ a question.

“Is there any way for you to know for sure, John? This morning you learned that both Victor and I have a penchant for breaking into the Restricted Section of the Library after dark. Then you learn that Molly suspects me.”

“Don’t be such a drama Queen, Sherlock,” snapped John. He turned and faced the window “…No, I know you’re for real.” He wasn’t going to go there again. He saw it in the forest, Sherlock broken and lost within himself from the fear and sadness of John’s suspicion. From the worry at losing one of his only friends. He wouldn’t entertain the thought of Sherlock as some manipulative super-villain. He and Sherlock had turned one another inside out and John knew, intimately, what the other boy was made of. And it was beautiful. Brilliant. Not twisted and wicked.

“How can you possibly know that?” asked Sherlock.

John turned to face him, angrily “You haven’t deduced it already?” he asked, disbelieving.

Sherlock took two swift steps towards John and stared down at him. John held his gaze.

“I’ve never…” Sherlock began, haltingly, “you have no proof and yet…” his eyes gazed at John so softly, like he was a breakable thing.

“I don’t need proof, you git,” John said, “You told me it wasn’t you, I made a mistake when I suspected you and I’m sorry,” he shook his head, “It’s all fine… I _know_ you.”

Sherlock kissed him. He leaned down, grabbed John and pressed his lips roughly against John’s. John wasn’t expecting it, his arms flailed and he grabbed at Sherlock, steadying himself.

Sherlock, sensing he had pulled John off-kilter, broke the kiss and moved back a fraction, “sorry, did I do it wrong?”

“No you didn’t,” said John, smiling, “come here.”

John pulled the taller boy towards him by his robes and kissed him gently. Sherlock’s fingertips were back at John’s collar, sliding down the front of his robes. John could feel the warm fingertips pulling gently at the cloth.

He let Sherlock kiss him, placing his hands gently on the taller boy’s waist. When Sherlock pulled eagerly at his robes, he let him do that too, shaking the heavy, black fabric off him once Sherlock had gotten it far enough off him. The press of Sherlock’s lips against his was beautiful. He let Sherlock set the pace, ignoring his own desires. He wanted to seize him and push him down onto the bed, climb on top. But he kept still. His entire body thrumming with anticipation, excitement.

Sherlock pulled John close again, John could feel Sherlock’s arousal against his own. Sherlock moaned, deep and broken against John’s lips. John couldn’t help his lips twitching into a smile at that. He placed a hand against Sherlock’s collar, softly. Just beside his Ravenclaw tie. He could feel the warmth of Sherlock’s chest under the fabric. Feel his heart beating. Sherlock’s hips thrust into John’s erection. The feeling was delicious. Another moan.

Sherlock pulled back enough that he could still see John, their bodies still pressed together.

“I’d like to undress you, John,” he murmured.

“Undress me, then.”

Sherlock started on John’s tie, the red and gold moving under those clever fingers. Once untied, he pulled at one end of it, bringing John close enough to kiss again. Sherlock kissed him and the tie slid out from under his collar. Sherlock stepped back and John, obligingly lifted his arms so that Sherlock could pull off his jumper.

He grinned when his head was free, his hair mussed. Sherlock smiled in return, holding John’s eyes briefly before dropping to look at his shirt buttons.

“May I-”

“Sherlock,” John interrupted, taking his hands and holding them gently, “anything you want.”

Sherlock nodded and pulled his fingers from John’s, reaching for… for a moment, John thought Sherlock meant to take off John’s pants first. He tensed, but no. Sherlock unbuttoned John’s shirt from the bottom and worked his way up. Kissing him gently on the lips again and again as he slid the shirt off John’s shoulders. Then swiftly, he kneeled and undid John’s trousers, pulling them down to his ankles. John, like most wizarding boys, didn’t bother with muggle underpants. A quick spell kept the crotch of his trousers clean enough and those old fashioned long-john’s that went under billowing robes were basically just trousers anyway.

“Ah,” murmured Sherlock, smiling.

John looked down. His shoes were still on. He giggled and toed them off, kicking socks and the trousers after him. Sherlock stood and took a step back, eying him, his fingers steepled under his chin. John felt naked, he _was_ naked. Not a stitch of clothing on him and his cock, achingly hard, pointing straight forward as Sherlock’s eyes traced their way up and down his body.

“Well, Mr. Holmes,” the arousal deepened his voice, “now what will you do with me?”

“Lie down on the bed,” said Sherlock, after a pause. John complied.

Sherlock didn’t climb onto the bed, he stood next to it, looking down at John. John felt so vulnerable but at the same time, excited. He shifted on the mattress, impatiently.

One fingertip pressed lightly against John’s shoulder. Sherlock trailed it down his chest and John’s muscles tightened reflexively as it moved. A groan, long and wanting, ripped it’s way from his chest. Sherlock’s studious eyes caught John’s gaze. How could one tiny touch be so impossibly erotic. The fingertip slid down across John’s stomach and paused at the crease between torso and leg. John shut his eyes and bit his lip, willing himself not to move. Let Sherlock take the reigns and learn what made them both tick. Slowly Sherlock moved his finger towards John’s cock and then away again, sliding back and forth across the join. A hand… Sherlock’s other hand gently cupped John’s face. He felt Sherlock’s lips trailing across his own but knew now wasn’t the time to kiss back. He let Sherlock explore, running his lips across the rough stubble-marked skin on his jawline, then Sherlock bent to kiss him at the collarbone. The fingertip trailing down by his cock became a hand, gripping lightly on his hip. Burning it’s presence into his skin. Sherlock’s lips followed the trail of his fingertip. John was so hard it hurt by the time Sherlock was kissing, licking along the crease between his torso and his leg. John gripped the bedsheets tightly.

Then finally _finally_ Sherlock climbed up onto the bed, straddled John and took off his own robe.

John lay, watching Sherlock.

“I can hardly believe this is…” Sherlock trailed off and John took his hand, he pulled Sherlock down, guiding him for the first time since Sherlock had kissed him.

John kissed Sherlock deeply, his lips soft and willing. Gently, he lifted his hips to thrust at Sherlock, his cock sliding deliciously against the fabric of Sherlock’s trousers. He could feel Sherlock’s cock hard against his own. Sherlock shuddered so John did it again. Wanting it to feel as good as it could for Sherlock.

Sherlock pulled back and straightened up, pulling at the front of his trousers until they were open enough that he could push them down past his hips. His cock was long and slender, John wanted to touch it but he didn’t dare. Instead, he watched. He trailed his eyes from Sherlock’s cock up his shirt to his face and then back down again, connecting the two parts together in his mind.

Sherlock leaned down and kissed John again, his Ravenclaw tie tickling John’s stomach. Their cocks touching and John’s mind almost whited out. He thrust against Sherlock, feeling the delicious hardness slide against his own. Sherlock groaned against John’s lips and… there was only so much John could withstand. He gripped Sherlock’s hips and pushed him forwards and backwards as he thrust upwards, they were too dry, he groped for a wand, any wand, and found one sitting on his nightstand.

“Lubricus,” he murmured, pointing the wand. They were wet and slick instantly. John thrust and the feeling was divine. He dropped the wand and it fell with a clatter somewhere onto the floor. It didn’t matter where. Sherlock kissed him again and all that mattered was those two points of contact. Sherlock’s lips against his and Sherlock’s cock against his. He thrust again, pulling Sherlock forward. Sherlock moaned against his lips and John grunted in reply, he couldn’t slow down, it felt too good.

Sherlock sat upright and John gasped for air, not letting go of Sherlock’s hips.

Sherlock gripped his own cock and John’s together in his hand. Slowly he slid his fingers up and then down again. John arched his back, trying not to cry out. Sherlock was touching him. Sherlock had his hand around his own cock and around John’s. John opened his eyes, he hadn’t even realised he had closed them. There he was. Sherlock, still in his school shirt with his Ravenclaw tie around his neck. His pupils were blown wide with desire, his mouth kiss-pink and wet. John caught Sherlock’s eye.

“Sherlock,” he breathed.

“This is,” Sherlock pulled on their cocks again, “overwhelming.”

“Don’t stop,” murmured John, it was so special seeing Sherlock like this. Unraveled, undone. Normally, his mind was on a thousand things at once. Noticing uneven hems and how many books people were holding. But now it was just Sherlock. Free from all the other thoughts. Just the two of them. John watched him move, the delicious feeling accompanying every stroke. It _was_ overwhelming, “it’s so good, just don’t stop.”

Sherlock nodded frantically, moving his hand faster. His hair was a mess. It was a stunning site. Sherlock was breathing hard. He threw his head back and John could see the long line of his body, stretching his shirt taut, almost seamless from his cock all the way up to the underside of his chin. He was so beautiful. John wanted more of him. Sherlock’s movements went jagged, he was close. John could feel his thighs tensing above him, he gripped at Sherlock’s hips hard and watched as Sherlock reached climax. He was completely silent save for the rough huff of breath that tore it’s way from his chest. Semen coating his hand and John’s cock.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” John breathed, Sherlock had stilled, yet Jon could still feel his own orgasm building at the base of his cock, “don’t stop I-”

Sherlock caught his gaze, eyes hooded and dark, John felt trapped and consumed by those eyes. Sherlock moved his slick fingers over John’s cock, once, twice… John’s orgasm ripped it’s way free, exploding in a delicious shimmer that worked it’s way right up his spine and down to the tips of his toes. He wasn’t quiet like Sherlock, he dimly wondered if the sound would travel through the heavy stone walls. His whole body twitched as Sherlock released his cock, wiping his hands off on the bedsheets. John reached up to pull the other boy down to him by his Ravenclaw tie.

He kissed him, slow and sensual. Their lips brushing lightly across one another till one of them gave in and pressed them together softly. When Sherlock pulled back, John shifted across far enough to allow the other boy to sink into the mattress next to him. John pulled him close and held him. This mad genius was _his_ and nothing would change that.

“Can I?” asked John, once his emotions were back in check. He motioned to Sherlock’s shirt.

“Of course,” murmured Sherlock.

John slowly undid the tie and the buttons of Sherlock’s shirt. Sherlock shrugged out of them and settled down again next to him. John placed his hand over Sherlock’s heart.

“Are you alright?” he asked.

“Yes,” said Sherlock, smiling, “a little messy but…”

John looked down, “yes, we seem to have made a mess of your trousers, hang on,” he rolled and retrieved the wand from the floor. His spell cleaned them both up and he let it fall again, with a clatter, onto the ground.

“Come here,” murmured John, beckoning Sherlock closer.

They settled together, Sherlock’s head on John’s chest, his body curled against John’s side. John stroked one hand lazily through Sherlock’s hair until he felt the other boy’s heart slow to it’s usual pace.

John let his fingers slip through the soft curls and along Sherlock’s neck to his collar bone.

“You always wear this,” said John, lifting the silver phial from where it lay against Sherlock’s chest.

“Yes, ever since I was admitted to the class.”

“It suits you.”

“Would you like…” Sherlock trailed off.

“What?”

“Sentiment. It’s silly, isn’t it.”

“Not to me, it’s not.” John meant it.

“In that case, John… would you like to wear it? As a… token, I suppose.”

John smiled and kissed Sherlock, melting blissfully into the other boy’s arms.

 

—

 

“You’ve distracted me, John,” said Sherlock, lazily, “I might have solved it all by now.”

“There’s still time,” murmured John in reply, “besides, you started it.”

“I suppose I did, didn’t I?”

They lapsed into silence. John didn’t want this moment to end. It was so perfect, the two of them and the comfortable silence. Patting Sherlock’s hair and watching him, it made John feel comfortable and safe like nothing had before. But he knew Sherlock’s mind was already back on the case. Already strategising and putting together different theories. He sighed, casting his mind back over the last few weeks.

“Do you think we have enough to go on?” asked John.

“I think I might,” said Sherlock, “there’s a piece at the center of the puzzle. I’m sure by now you’ve realised that everyone involved in… whatever this is, with the exception of Filch of course, every one of us is in final year potions together.”

“Yes,” said John, “I had noticed that.”

“I’ve deduced that when Victor Trevor was caught out of bed in the restricted section of the library, he was there on the same project as I had undertaken with you around the same time.”

“He was trying to become an animagus as well?”

“Not an animagus specifically. The thing you must know, John, is that at the start of the year, our professor had some very specific instructions for us. I can recall them precisely if you’d like to hear them.”

“Go on then,” said John, not doubting Sherlock’s recall for a moment. He kept his fingers moving through the other boy’s hair. It was impossible to stop once he’d started and Sherlock seemed to like it as much as he did.

“Ladies and Gentlemen,” recalled Sherlock, “welcome to the most infamous class in Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. Welcome to the Silver Phials. As you are all aware, this class is highly demanding. You will all be required to learn skills above and beyond mere potion making and befriend unlikely allies in order to achieve success in this classroom. This year there will be a special prize for the student who outwits, outfoxes and outmaneuvers their classmates. This student will also be the only one who receives an Outstanding N.E.W.T result in this class,” Sherlock paused.

“Hang on,” said John, pausing his hand in Sherlock’s hair, “you mean you only befriended me for… for a _potions_ class?”

“That’s hardly relevant now, John,” said Sherlock, gesturing vaguely at the bed.

“I… I guess not, I just… never mind.” John mulled over the words Sherlock had recited, “what’s the name of your potions professor again?”

“Professor Moriarty,” said Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Cliffhanger! Sorry.  
> \- More and more quotes from Season 3 seem to be sneaking in. I don’t mind, I think it keeps me on the straight and narrow, the characters sound like themselves this way.  
> \- Lubricus is also the name of a fan-run HP slash convention held yearly in Washington State, USA. If you live near there, look into it! I hear it’s really great.  
> \- The potions professor has always been Moriarty in my head. We’ve actually seen him a couple of times before now! Also, you guys are probably going to figure it all out now, let me know your theories.


	11. The Network

“Moriarty,” said John, “yeah. He’s new isn’t he?”

“Just the last two years, yes,” said Sherlock, “you didn’t do sixth year potions either. You dropped the class because you didn’t think it would give you a high enough NEWT result to justify the amount of work required. You’re quite practical like that. And it’s probably true, really.”

John nodded, “so the prize that you might win. What is it?”

Sherlock shrugged, “typically a potion, difficult to brew or rare ingredients. Something valuable that will benefit the student once they’ve graduated Hogwarts.”

“That’s what the empty phial is for… if you win, the potion goes into your phial.”

“Sharp thinking, John,” Sherlock agreed, John felt himself flush with the praise, “Moriarty has had a small cauldron bubbling away at the front of the classroom for the whole year. The potion, once he’s completed brewing it, is the prize. So far, so obvious.”

Sherlock sat up, his knees almost tucked under his chin. His eyes were focused far away, deep in thought. John sat up too and mirrored Sherlock, their toes touching.

“Eight students compete for a potion that… I don’t know, makes them immortal or something,” said John, “What happens next… You and I steal and return our animagus books from the library. Victor gets a detention for being out of bed in the same place. Probably trying to get an edge over the other students… like you. Then Filch goes missing. Then what, Victor goes missing. We find out Molly and Irene and maybe other students have all been in Victor’s room.”

“Ah,” said Sherlock, his eyes brightening.

“What is it?”

“What if one of them was light-fingered?” he whispered.

“Stole… the potion, you mean? That would make sense. You said it was valuable.”

“That’s what Irene thinks. Remember she said she’d caught Molly tearing apart Victor’s bedsheets _looking for it_.”

“Yeah,” John paused, “what else were you talking to Irene about? You were gone for a long time.”

“Just… Family stuff,” replied Sherlock.

“What?” asked John, confused.

“Irene is my cousin. Our mothers are sisters. Fawley family.”

“Oh, I didn’t realise,” stammered John, a guilty surge of relief working it’s way through his system.

“Surely you have relatives at Hogwarts, John, you’re family are wizarding too.”

“I had a cousin a few years above us, yeah, but none at the moment.”

“You’re distracting me, I need to _think_.”

“Let me help you,” said John, wiggling his toes against Sherlock’s, “tell me what you’re thinking and I’ll try to… I don’t know.”

Sherlock caught his eye and held it there. The tension between them was still there, palpable. The touch of Sherlock’s toes against John’s own was suddenly very obvious. So was the fact that John was naked and Sherlock was clad only in a pair of open trousers. John gulped.

“Say someone stole the potion,” said Sherlock, not taking his eyes off John, “Filch, it has to be Filch, he’s always down in the dungeons. He’s a squib and-”

“A squib?”

“I implore you, do use your eyes once every now and then, John. Of course he’s a squib. But a powerful potion, ah yes, that would be more valuable to him than it would be to you or I.”

“So he’s re-stocking the potions stores down in the dungeon, figures out what it is and nicks it.”

“No, the timeline’s out. The potion was there when I was last had potions class. The earliest it could have gone missing was the night after my last potions class.”

“Which was…” John hesitated, “the night Victor went missing.”

“So, let’s say Filch was aware of the potion. Not a difficult leap, it’s not been hidden. Maybe he spoke to Victor about it. He realises it’s value and decides to take it. Maybe Victor suspected him and was tailing him.”

“But Sherlock, the potion wasn’t stolen.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed, “Even if it was replaced with something else, Moriarty would have spotted a fake. Perhaps Victor stopped Filch from stealing the potion. If he was trailing him the night we were almost caught out of bed and took advantage of the full body bind curse. Victor is crafty, it fits his profile.”

“You’re not suggesting that Victor killed Filch over a potion though, are you?”

“I’m certain there are plenty of students and teachers who take issue with Filch, it could have been completely unrelated. But it’s unlikely. The parchment Filch was holding when you cast that full body bind, it was a list of supplies needed to re-stock Moriarty’s supply room. So again there are links to Filch and to Potions. Besides, Victor has been behaving oddly since Filch vanished, always staying behind after Potions to speak with the Professor. Perhaps he was trying to get closer to that potion. See if it was ready or how it was defended.”

“Okay,” John paused, this was a dangerous route for them to be thinking along, “say that Victor did get rid of Filch. Why did Victor go missing?”

“He took his time. Found out everything he could about the potion and then when the time was right, he took it. Then something happened that he hadn’t planned for. Another student, aside from me, clearly suspected his involvement. He was intercepted. The potion was taken off of him and he was removed.”

“If he nicked it, why wouldn’t he just leave the castle on his own?”

“Because then he wouldn’t be missing, John. He’d have gone back to that ugly old terrace house that his family owns. It’s well protected enough that he could use the potion and return to Hogwarts at his own convenience.”

“So,” John paused, his thoughts were swimming, “you’re saying the only reason Victor would be missing is if he stole the potion and someone else killed him for it.”

“Most likely, yes.”

Sherlock lapsed into silence. John studied him. His face was blank, thoughtful. He didn’t seem shocked or upset by their deductions. Perhaps thoughts such as these had been playing around in his head for a while now. Just because he had only now given words to them, it didn’t mean those words would shock him. John knew Sherlock felt things like sadness and shock as he was deducing, not once those deductions had been proven true. It was as if he assumed every thought he came up with was definitively true. Perhaps it was.

“Wait,” said John, “you’re getting all this from two disappearances, Filch’s potions re-supply form and the assumption that the potion has been stolen at all.”

“Yes,” said Sherlock, “the question is, who has the potion now.”

“Surely, they’ve already used it.”

Sherlock shook his head, “we’d know if they had. Perhaps it’s not ready yet. Many advanced potions require time to mature.”

“It could be anywhere in the castle, it might still be in the potions classroom.”

“It might, there is one sure way to find out. Much as it pains me to say it, we’re going to have to put some clothes on.”

 

—

 

Sherlock had tucked the silver phial under John’s shirt before handing him his Gryffindor tie. It was interesting, John knew that he really wasn’t supposed to have it. But that worked, didn’t it? He wasn’t supposed to have Sherlock either. The two of them were competing for high marks in Transfiguration, really they ought to be wary of one another, if not enemies. Yet here they were, falling into John’s bed, twice now. He was immeasurably grateful that Sherlock had, for some reason, chosen him to sneak off into the night with. He could feel the metal of the phial sitting just below the knot of his tie. He hadn’t checked to see what was inside. And now they were off to destinations unknown. John trailed behind Sherlock, a hand on his father’s wand. They had decided that the fact that no one knew about their relationship was probably an ace up their sleeve. As much as John wanted to grab Sherlock and kiss him against the statue of the one-eyed witch, it was safer this way. If something happened to one of them, it was unlikely the other would be hurt. Because whoever it was wouldn’t know there was two of them. John had suggested they take their suspicions to the Headmaster, but Sherlock had laughed at that. He thought the teachers would just get in the way. He had a better idea. John had gone along with it. He could talk to the teachers whenever he liked. He trusted Sherlock implicitly.

“Through here,” said Sherlock, leading John down the staircase to the basement level below the Great Hall. They walked along a corridor, Sherlock stopping him halfway along. There was a large painting of a bowl of fruit. Checking either way, Sherlock waited for the last Hufflepuff girl to vanish around a corner before reaching out and tickling the pear. The pear giggled, squirmed and promptly turned into a green doorknob which Sherlock turned.

The room beyond was clearly directly underneath the Great Hall. It had the house and staff tables exactly the same size and position as the room above. All around them, house elves bustled about, preparing for dinner.

“The _house-elf_ network, John,” said Sherlock, “faster and far more discrete than teachers. If anything needs finding out, they can do it.”

John had seen house elves before. Some of his wizarding cousins lived in houses that had elves. Not his own family, though. He wondered if Sherlock’s family had any.

“Sherlock! Sir!” one of the house elves squeaked, coming to a stop in front of them. Sherlock crouched down so that he was closer to the elf’s level. John copied him.

“Hello Wiggy,” he said, “I trust you are well?”

“Of course, Sherlock Holmes, Sir!” the elf said.

“I very much enjoyed the breakfast you prepared today,” said Sherlock, John tilted his head, listening. He’d never heard Sherlock speak so kindly to someone else before, aside from him, of course, “did you do the eggs again? They were perfect.”

“Thankyou so much Sir!” Wiggy pulled at his tea-towel. It almost looked like he was blushing, “do Sherlock Holmes and his special short friend require something to eat before dinner?”

John coughed.

“Actually, Wiggy,” said Sherlock, ignoring him, “I need some help with finding something.”

“Wiggy can help, Sir. Just say the word!”

“I believe a potion has gone missing. It was down in Professor Moriarty’s classroom in a small silver cauldron.”

“Wiggy knows the potion, Sir!”

“Do you know where it is at the moment? Is it still in the potions classroom?”

“I do not know,” said Wiggy, looking crestfallen.

“That’s okay,” said Sherlock, hurriedly, “not a problem. When you and the other elves are tending the castle tonight, can you please keep an eye out for it?”

“Wiggy will search every corner of the castle himself!” the elf squeaked.

“That won’t be necessary,” said Sherlock, “I made you a list of the places it could be. Mostly seventh-year student’s dormitories. When you locate it, can you please send a note with Gladstone?”

“Please,” mimicked Wiggy, clearly enjoying Sherlock’s friendly demeanour, it was downright manipulative of Sherlock, “of course Sherlock Holmes, Sir!” he squeaked.

“Thank you so much,” said Sherlock, “pray tell, what’s for dinner, tonight?”

“Roast beef and vegetables, pumpkin juice, garden salad, tentacula treakle!” said Wiggy, proudly.

“I look forward to it,” said Sherlock, standing.

 

—

 

“You’re a master at buttering up house elves, aren’t you,” said John as they headed back to the great hall.

“I was practically raised by one,” said Sherlock, “Wiggy’s brother, incidentally. And I don’t butter them up, as you say. I do, genuinely have a fondness for them. Their life is simple. They are actually quite pleasant.”

“Never had that much to do with them,” said John, “do you really think they’ll find the potion faster than the teachers?”

“And with less fuss,” said Sherlock, “I think that by tomorrow, we will now exactly where that potion is. We can draw our conclusions from there.”

“And we will go to the teachers, right?”

“Of course,” said Sherlock, pulling him into a small alcove and kissing him softly. John couldn’t help but kiss back, despite his heart beating wildly in his chest. What if someone _saw_? Sherlock broke the kiss as suddenly as it had begun. He looked into John’s eyes for a moment.

“See you in Transfigurations,” he murmured.

“Goodnight, mister fox,” said John.

With a swish of his robes, Sherlock was off down the corridor. John swallowed, leaning heavily against the stone wall to watch him go.

 

—

 

That night, John struggled to focus on his regular homework. He’d spent much of the weekend so embroiled with Sherlock (in every way) it was difficult to brush it all off and work on other things. But he needed to. He had a future to plan for. And if he wanted to be an auror or even a healer, he needed top marks. He redoubled his efforts and did actually get some work done, but when Molly came into the common room, his thoughts strayed to the mystery again. He wondered when Wiggy would be searching her dormitory. Eventually, he gave up on work and retired to his bedroom. He affixed small pieces of parchment to his wall with a sticking spell. One for each member of the potions class. Molly Hooper, Mike Stamford, Irene Adler, Phillip Anderson, Sally Donovan, Sarah Sawyer. There was Sherlock and Victor too, but he simply couldn’t add them to the wall. Instead, he sat and read the other names over and over again. One of them had murdered Victor Trevor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Fawley family is one of the twenty-eight ‘truly pure blood families’ as listed in the Pure-Blood Directory. I imagine it’s where Irene and Sherlock get those dark features and cheekbones from.  
> \- Wiggy comes from Wiggins, one of the members of the Baker Street Irregulars in the original ACD stories and also from Bill “Wiggy” Wiggins in BBC Sherlock ‘His Last Vow’.  
> \- Writing house elves is painful. I don’t know how Rowling does it and makes it seem… not awful.


	12. So Affected

The next morning it seemed like the Silver Phials students were everywhere. John sat at his place in the great hall next to Molly. Her presence was like a prickle in his side that he couldn’t ignore. Across from them was Mike Stamford. He was chatting merrily with a few of the younger Gryffindor students, telling a story of how some pixies were set loose in the Great Hall one Halloween. Irene Adler was over at the Slytherin table, sitting by herself. She had a book open in front of her, but her eyes were on the staff table… Which is were Professor Moriarty sat with the other teachers. He must have caught a chill over the weekend, the steam coming out of his ears was a side-effect of Madam Pomfrey’s remedy. The Hufflepuff girls Sally Donovan and Sarah Sawyer sat giggling at their own table, they were trading notes with the girls at the Ravenclaw table, sending little pieces of parchment flying across the aisle. Phillip Anderson watched them, he looked cranky. Suspiciously so, John mused. He held a large mug of coffee and his hair was disheveled.

It was strange, all of these normal breakfast activities were now suddenly so suspicious to John. The sun shone merrily down through the invisible ceiling of the great hall and through the windows all around them. The water goblet before him shone, a blonde girl at the next table flicked her hair and it caught in the sunshine. It was strange that John’s mood could be so different to the scene surrounding him. Like a battle was going on under the surface and no one but himself and Sherlock (and someone else… _who_ ) were able to see it. And then there was Sherlock. He was watching everyone, much like John. His eyes flitting from table to table as he analysed and catalogued every blink, every glance. One of his long, slender fingers slid it’s way up and down the stem of his own goblet. John watched him, mesmerised, almost willing Sherlock to look his way. He felt like an overexcited puppy that wanted attention from his owner. That was an awful way of thinking about it but Sherlock just looked so regal, sitting there. Tall and slender in those well-fitting robes, curly hair tousled just so. John remembered running his fingers through it, he wanted to do it again. Soon. Sherlock was so perfect, designed from the finest ingredients. John was more of a ramshackle mess, his hair did whatever it liked, he walked as though he had a broom between his legs and he was just… little. Perhaps that’s why he found Sherlock so fascinatingly irresistible, opposites attract. Perhaps Sherlock felt the same way about him. That thought excited him more than it should.

Sherlock met his gaze and blinked, slowly. He shivered and returned Sherlock’s gaze with his own. For a moment, it was as though it was just the two of them there, like the other students and the big mystery had blurred and vanished into insignificance. John hoped he’d be able to get some time alone with Sherlock today. John had never desperately wanted for anything in his life. But right now, he _wanted_ Sherlock. More than anything. He wondered if Wiggy the house elf had reported back yet. Maybe Sherlock already knew who was at the middle of this web and the two of them would just be able to get on with... well, whatever it was they were getting on with.

One of the younger Ravenclaw students tapped on Sherlock’s shoulder and he looked away to speak with her. John looked back down at his own breakfast. He would see Sherlock again after his Defense Against the Dark Arts class. Sherlock had Potions. John was worried about letting him go off on his own into that classroom, but he’d see him right after in Transfiguration so he tried not to fret too much. Besides, it’s not like any of the other students would try anything with the Professor right there.

 

—

 

Sherlock brushed past John as they entered the Transfigurations classroom and John felt something being pushed into his hand. Sherlock didn’t look back at him, he walked forward briskly and sat in his usual spot on the right hand side of the classroom. John looked down at the piece of parchment in his hand. Sherlock had folded it twice, neatly. Realising he’d stopped in the middle of the doorway, he blinked and veered left taking his place on the left bank of seating with the other Gryffindors. Today was a theoretical class, they would be studying applications of transfiguration symbology in creating their own transformations. It was interesting work, McGonagall was an expert. But John felt like the class was much less fascinating now that he had a beautiful Ravenclaw to stare at.

He unfolded the note in his lap, trying not to be obvious. Molly sat just two places over from him.

_“Your room, lunchtime - SH”_

The handwriting was immaculate, the S and H had been written over twice, curls added to it on the second pass.

John looked up and caught Sherlock’s eye. He nodded. Sherlock acknowledged him and focused his attention back on McGonagall. And that was it. For the whole class. Sherlock didn’t flick a single glance at John. The classroom was dark, no one would notice and yet Sherlock’s gaze stayed resolutely away from John’s. John watched as he took notes, his quill swirling softly through the air as he wrote on the parchment. His eyes glittered in the light of McGonnagal’s symbols. He adjusted his tie, ruffled his hair and John felt like he would fall out of his chair. God, he wanted him so badly. Wanted to see the immaculately put together man gasping, caked in sweat and totally undone. He wanted to do that. It was incredible that he was the one that _could_ do that. His fingers itched to grab at Sherlock. The class dragged on. The longer he sat in his seat, the more agitated he became. Why wouldn’t Sherlock look his way? How could he be so completely unaffected when John was ready to cross the floor (other students be damned) and snog the pants off of him. Sherlock was his, he wanted to claim him again and again. Yet there he sat looking all mysterious with his collar turned up and his cheekbones… This was torture.

 

—

 

“Is everything alright, John?”

“Trousers off. Now.”

“What?”

“Take your trousers off, Sherlock. Now. I won’t ask again.”

“John… I had no idea you’d be so affected.”

John’s self control failed at the sight of Sherlock pushing his trousers down. He practically threw himself at Sherlock, they hit the (thankfully closed) door to John’s room with a heavy thud, lips crashing against one another. John kissed him furiously. His his _his_. Channeling all his passion and frustration into his lips. Sherlock kissed him back, accepting his tongue, wantonly. John moaned into Sherlock, hitching one of Sherlock’s knees up so he could lean in closer. They were pressed so tightly together that he could feel Sherlock’s heart thundering against his own. He could feel Sherlock hardening against him. He reached down, pulling away from Sherlock just long enough to get a hand down there, he gripped Sherlock’s cock tightly and kissed him. He was warm, hard. John wanted more. He broke the kiss and dropped to his knees, his hands on Sherlock’s stomach. He pushed him against the door again. Thud. Sherlock’s cock was inches from his lips. He looked up at the furious desire in Sherlock’s eyes.

“Please.”

They both said it at the same time. Pleading, desperate.

John didn’t take his eyes off Sherlock. He gripped his cock with one hand and slowly leaned in, licking his way across the glans. Sherlock’s eyes fluttered, he weaved his shaking fingers through John’s hair. If John was going to have a heterosexual crisis, now would be the time. But his mind was so focused on Sherlock, taking him apart till he was a quivering mess, he couldn’t think of anything else. Gently he sucked at the tip of Sherlock’s cock and the fingers in his hair gripped at him. He slid his lips downward, taking Sherlock’s shaft into his mouth, his tongue swishing side to side along it’s underside. Sherlock moaned, shutting his eyes and taking one hand off John to grip frantically at the door frame so he didn’t fall. John closed his eyes and pulled back, sucking softly at Sherlock’s cock as it slid from his mouth till just the glans was between his lips. He ran his tongue around it in a circles and Sherlock’s moans went uneven. John pushed again and slid the cock back into his mouth as far as he dared and out again. He kept moving, gripping the base of Sherlock’s cock with one hand and sliding the other around Sherlock’s hip to grip at his ass through his trousers. The fingers in John’s hair were rough now, all the tension and pomp that made Sherlock stand upright so straight, made him look down on the younger students… it was all gone. He was just a mess of desire and lust and yes. John felt powerful, only he could do this to Sherlock. But it also felt so right. Giving pleasure so selflessly to the beautiful creature before him. As John worked at him, Sherlock’s moans began petering out. He was a gasping, shaking mess, looking down at John with awe and desire.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, “I…”

John pushed Sherlock’s cock into his mouth and out again, faster. The grip on his hair was painful now. Sherlock’s cock grew even harder. John knew he was close. He pulled back and ran his lips and tongue furiously over his glans as his hand slid up and down his shaft. Sherlock’s whole body was twitching. He was silent as he came. He tasted salty and bitter and like Sherlock. John didn’t try to swallow it all, he was too focused on licking at Sherlock’s glans and making his body tremor again and again and again.

“John, please,” said Sherlock, as one such lick sent a powerful aftershock through him, making his whole body twitch. John pulled back smiling and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Sherlock sank to the floor a shaking, trembling mess. _Good_ John thought to himself, gathering the taller boy into his arms, kissing him and holding him tight.

 

—

 

Sherlock had returned the favour, pressing John against the wall and copying John’s technique precisely. He was, if possible, noisier when he was giving head than receiving it. John hadn’t lasted long either and they were both crumpled on the messy floor again within a few minutes. John’s mind could barely contain the incredible vision of Sherlock with his plush lips wrapped around his cock for a few minutes, it seemed. He knew his thoughts would be drawn back to the sight for the next few weeks, if not months. It had been almost impossible to process while it was happening.

John kissed Sherlock again, tasting himself on the other boy’s lips.

“You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

“What?”

“Ignored me all the way through Transfigurations class to see how mad and desperate I’d be come lunchtime.”

“Do you think I’m that cunning?” asked Sherlock.

“Yes,” said John, “I really do.”

Sherlock laughed, darkly and John kissed him, gently this time. Sherlock let him, his lips warm and soft. John loved kissing Sherlock. His scent was everywhere, all over him. It was almost too good. Finally, reluctantly, he broke the kiss and slid a finger down the other boy’s jawline.

“So tell me,” he said, quietly, “did Wiggy get back to you with anything?”

“Nothing,” said Sherlock, “which means they haven’t found the potion or the cauldron yet. They were missing from Potions class. Obviously.”

“They were…” John mulled over that, “Did your professor say anything?”

“Well, Moriarty is unlikely to bring it up with his students,” said Sherlock, “no, it was just missing from his desk. If anyone noticed, no one said anything.”

John clambered to his feet and offered a hand down to Sherlock. Sherlock took it and stood, elegantly.

“I’ve um… actually done a bit of homework,” said John, gesturing to his wall. Small pieces of parchment were organised underneath the headings of each of the suspects. Fine glittering strands connected some to others. A few were golden and some were blue.

“An investigation wall,” Sherlock smiled at John, “you shouldn’t have.”

“It wasn’t a gift, Sherlock. I’ve been trying to piece everything together… wait, you like it, then?” asked John.

“I may have noticed it when I came in. You’ve made some clever deductions.”

John had never received such lavish praise from Sherlock before. He felt himself growing red under the taller boy’s gaze.

“In fact,” Sherlock continued, “your cleverness may have contributed to ah…”

John didn’t need Sherlock to put too fine a point on it. He reached out and gently pulled Sherlock to him by his tie, kissing him soundly on the lips.

When they parted, they both turned back to the wall.

“What happens now?” asked John.

“I suppose we wait for Wiggy to return with the information. We need to establish the whereabouts of the potion. Clearly it’s not in any of the locations I gave him so we’re at a dead end, I’m afraid. There’s nothing further to investigate until we have that piece of the puzzle.” He leaned forward and touched the scrap of parchment where John had drawn a small cauldron with the potion inside. It was surprisingly accurate.

“You’ll owl me as soon as you know anything, won’t you?” asked John.

“Of course,” said Sherlock, letting his finger fall from the wall as he surveyed it’s outermost branches.

“I still feel like something is missing,” said John.

“I know exactly how you feel,” agreed Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- “I had no idea you’d be so affected” is a real Sherlock line from ACD canon.


	13. The Point of No Return

John couldn’t find Sherlock after dinner. He’d seen him briefly in the Great Hall, though, John didn’t see him eating anything. Sherlock had moved purposefully across the hall, past the Slytherin table and around again to leave the same way he’d come. Perhaps he was checking for someone’s presence. Though, it was still early, not all the students had dinner at the same time.

John spent a bit of time wandering the halls looking for Sherlock before he returned to Gryffindor tower. Once inside the common room, he looked about for anyone that wasn’t a familiar face (who knew, anyone could be Sherlock. Hidden in plain sight). Finding no one, he went up to his own room.

Suddenly, there was a loud crack that sent John’s heart into his throat. He whirled around to be met with the short, wrinkled house elf Wiggy.

“Uh,” he was at a loss, “hello Wiggy.”

“Hello Mister John Watson,” squeaked the house elf, “Wiggy was looking for Mister Sherlock, sir, but Wiggy couldn’t find him in the Ravenclaw tower or the library or the Great Hall.”

“He’s missing?” asked John.

“Wiggy is thinking so, sir,” said the elf, gravely, “Wiggy found these on his bed in the boys dormitory.”

Wiggy offered John Sherlock’s invisibility cloak and a note. John took the note first. It was scribbled in an unfamiliar hand. John swallowed down his worry. Now was _not_ the time for panic. He didn’t read the words themselves. He knew Sherlock’s methods by now and clearly the items had been left on the bedspread for him to find, so he sat on his own bed and inspected the note. He could feel the adrenaline rising in him, but his hands were perfectly steady. He focused. The parchment wasn’t unusual. It had been purchased at Scribbulus Writing Instruments, John could see the watermark in the corner. So a witch or wizard that lived either in London or visited London to do their shopping. Could be anyone at Hogwarts, really. The handwriting was ornate and curled. It wasn’t handwriting he recognised, though it seemed like a woman’s hand. The letter i’s were dotted with little stars. Teenage boys were rarely that whimsical. The ink was green, which suggested Slytherin. A lot of the Slytherin students used green ink just as the Ravenclaws used blue. John had always thought it a bit silly, he just used black, as did most of the other Gryffindor students.

Finally, finally, he took a breath and read the words on the paper.

_“I have her. Bring me the potion or she will be next. Sullivan’s room.”_

John shut his eyes and breathed, his mind racing.

“Was there anything else there Wiggy?” he asked.

“No sir, just the note and this,”

John opened his eyes and saw Wiggy was still holding out the cloak. He offered it to John again and he took it gratefully. Sherlock had meant for John to come looking for him. Find the note and the cloak. He wasn’t so careless that he’d leave these things out in plain sight... But where the heck was Sullivan’s room?

“Wiggy knows he shouldn’t be moving Mister Sherlock’s possessions around without permission, sir. But Wiggy was worried.”

“Rightly so,” said John, “Does this mean anything to you, Wiggy? Do you know of a Mr. Sullivan or a Sullivan’s Room in the castle?”

Wiggy shook his head and looked down, sadly.

“Wiggy, I need you to take this note and show it to…” John cast his mind around for a teacher be both knew well and trusted completely to keep their head in a crisis like this. There was only one choice, really, “Professor McGonagall. Tell her it’s to do with Victor Trevor’s disappearance.”

He stood, casting a disillusionment charm over himself before throwing the cloak over his shoulders, the hood hanging down over his head. Wiggy blinked up at him, meeting his eyes precisely. John wondered, could Wiggy still see him?

“Is there anything else?” John asked.

“Well, Wiggy found the potion, sir… well, not the potion. Just the silver cauldron from Professor Moriarty’s desk.”

“Where was it?” asked John.

“In the potions store room, in the dungeons, sir.”

“It was in… Professor Moriarty’s storage room?” stuttered John.

The elf nodded. It didn’t make sense. Why should the cauldron be packed away where it belonged? If someone had stolen the potion, it would have taken time and effort to break down the wards that held it in it’s cauldron. There simply wouldn’t be time to remove the potion from the cauldron in situ. John looked from the elf to his investigation wall and back again. He was lost. He wasn’t going to be able to figure this out on his own. He had to find Sherlock. God, Sherlock had walked into something without him... He felt sick.

 

—

 

John hurried through the darkening corridors of the castle. It was getting late so there weren’t many students left out and about, just a few heading back from the library, looking sleepy with big dusty books in their arms. John avoided them easily. He was making a lot of noise, he knew. But he was desperate to reach the Ravenclaw common room so he could begin his search for Sherlock. There was no chance he was going to figure out who or what Sullivan was, but he had another ace up his sleeve. One Sherlock knew about. He wanted to hug Sherlock, but also punch him in the face. That clever bastard. He’d probably planned this.

Sherlock was just the type to go confront the student responsible for Victor’s disappearance and get himself stuck and John would have to be the soldier. Raise his wand and blast the way out for the both of them. _Anything for you, Sherlock,_ he thought to himself. Wherever Sherlock was, John would always _always_ find him. He tightened his fingers around his father’s wand in his pocket, he was ready.

He reached the Ravenclaw common room’s entrance and stopped. He didn’t need to sneak in, this should work fine. He took a breath and shut his eyes, searching inside himself for the dog. He had been aware of the presence there, skittering about at the back of his mind. It would never really go away. He’d gotten used to it anyway. But now he reached for it, brought it to the front of his mind and let it consume him. He focused, not pulling at it too strongly, he hadn’t done this in a while and he needed to get it right. Better not enough than too much. He was cautious, gentle. He buried himself inside the dog until it surrounded him and he felt himself transform.

 

—

 

Scents were all around him. Sherlock. Where was Sherlock. The dog filtered through the riot of smells before him till he caught the scent. It wasn’t hard, the smell of Sherlock was all over him and all over the cloak too. It was familiar and comfortable and _everywhere_. He could also smell the scent on the ground in front of him. The scent of Sherlock’s trail leaving the Ravenclaw common room and heading off to… wherever it was. It hadn’t been long, the scent was as fresh as a breeze off the ocean. The dog bit at the hem of the cloak so it wouldn’t fly off and loped down the corridor after it.

It was a long way, the dog bounded down one corridor after another. The cloak flapped around his paws. The dog hoped no one would spot him. How far had Sherlock gone? The scent wasn’t getting much stronger, which meant it was no fresher than it had been at the Ravenclaw common room door. Sherlock must have known where he was going, he must have traveled quickly. The route was direct, heading upwards to the seventh floor. Then suddenly, the scent was gone. The dog stopped, nearly tripping over the cloak. He stood stock still and listened. Nothing. He turned and took a few steps back the way he came, lowered his nose and sniffed, carefully. He caught the scent again but it ended here. There were no doors… it was as though Sherlock had walked to this point in the corridor and then vanished. To one side of the dog there was a char-stained old tapestry of a wizard trying to teach some trolls ballet and the other side was a blank wall. He padded over to the blank wall and snuffled at the join between the floor and the wall. This is where the trail ended. The dog felt for the human inside him and relaxed back into him. John was in there. He was John.

 

—

 

John tapped at the wall, trying to keep his panic from rising to the surface. The stone here was as solid as the rest of the castle. _What now, Sherlock,_ he wondered, frantically. How was he supposed to figure out where the madman had gone from here. Anything could be happening, he could be in danger, he could be killed… John tightened the invisibility cloak around him and blocked out that thought. Sherlock knew how to look after himself. He was a genius.

“Hello there,” said a voice, John jumped, whirled around and felt the invisibility cloak ripped from him, frantically, John fumbled for his wand.

“Imperio.”

John’s fingers relaxed. He felt the imperius curse latch onto him and swell through his body with a mad ferocity. Unable to hold on to tension or shock, he felt a floating sensation as all the thoughts and worries were wiped gently away leaving nothing but a vague happiness. Everything was just fine. _Hello there_. He looked up, facing his assailant and saw that it was Professor Moriarty. Which was interesting, really, his mind drifted. Moriarty wasn’t much taller than he was. He’d never spoken to him before. He wasn’t worried, It was just the way things were right now. The two of them in a corridor. What could be more lovely. Moriarty was holding the cloak, intrigued. The imperius curse had broken John’s disillusionment charm which was... John’s mind drifted away and settled on happy contentment, instead. Moriarty had known he was there even though he’d been completely invisible. But he wasn’t invisible now, which was just fine. He smiled placidly at Morarity as the professor turned the cloak over in his hands.

“I must admit, I was expecting Sherlock,” said Moriarty. _Who are you?_ asked Moriarty’s voice in his head.

“My name’s John Watson, I’m a Gryffindor seventh-year.”

“Why do you have Sherlock’s phial?” _Why_

John hesitated, his mind shrinking away from the vice-like grip on the imperius curse. He had to run he had to tell McGonnagal- _Tell me now, everything is just fine_.

The strength of the curse redoubled, plunging John back into vague, comfortable contentedness.

“Sherlock gave me the phial as a token of his affection,” said John, his voice flat and even. There was nothing wrong with telling Moriarty these things. Nothing at all.

“Oh _my!_ That IS juicy! A little pet for Sherlock, how quaint!” exclaimed Moriarty, “where is Sherlock now.”

“No idea,” said John, it was true. He’d been looking for him.

“So we have you here with no Sherlock to look after you and you’re wearing his phial. So wherever Sherlock is, he’s gone there without it. That could be _quite_ interesting, couldn’t it! Oh John Watson, you have no idea how fun this has all been…”

Moriarty had been circling John as he spoke, but he stopped stared directly into John’s glassy eyes. His mad eyes looking for a sign of resistance or fight. John cleared his mind. Everything was alright, anyway. It was easy to satisfy the Professor. He sank into the imperius curse, no point fighting. None at all.

Moriarty dug a fingertip underneath John’s collar and pulled the phial out.

“Let’s see what turns up, then, eh Johnny boy?” said Moriarty.

Then Moriarty was shrinking, transforming. His skin darkened and blurred as he shrank, his two eyes becoming four and then six. His limbs seemed to multiply too. John’s mind accepted that Moriarty had transformed into a spider with total ease. After all, the spider was Moriarty and Moriarty was a spider now. And John shouldn’t hold that against him and everything was fine. It was just another lovely evening in Hogwarts. He felt the calmness pressing down onto his mind like a hat that was too tight. It was almost uncomfortable.

The spider scuttled towards him and climbed up his trousers. John watched it with a sort of detached interest as it settled on his shoulder.

_Walk_ said Moriarty’s voice inside his mind. John wanted to wonder where Moriarty was taking him, but that thought dismissed itself from his mind before he’d even thought it. He walked.

_Turn_ said the voice. John turned and walked back the way he came.

_Turn_ said the voice again. John complied and resumed his walking down the corridor. And suddenly a desire bloomed in his mind like it had been artificially injected into his veins. _I want to find Sherlock_. He did. He did want to find Sherlock. He couldn’t really remember why. But he did. He needed to find Sherlock. Find him and get to him.

_Stop_ said the voice. And John stopped. There was a door there. In the wall of the corridor where only blank wall had been before. John didn’t need the influence of Moriarty’s imperius curse to walk towards the door and turn the handle. It was dark in the room beyond, but John didn’t hesitate. He drew his wand and stepped through.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Cliffhanger! Sorry.  
> \- Scribbulus is in Diagon Alley.   
> \- Also, it’s the Room of Requirement (in case you hadn’t guessed). I’ve decided that it wasn’t destroyed by the fire in Deathly Hallows. Like you could kill any part of Hogwarts. Scoff scoff.  
> \- The imperius curse works the same way as it did in HP canon, but I’ve chosen to express it a little different here. That said, “He felt a floating sensation as all the thoughts and worries were wiped gently away leaving nothing but a vague happiness” is almost word-for-word from the Harry Potter books.


	14. Daylight Robbery

“Evening,” said John, as he entered the room, fingers around the phial hanging from his neck, “this is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?” his voice was light, lilting.

Moriarty’s control pressed down on him, he smiled as his mind rebelled. John could see Sherlock in the corner of the dark room. Candles flickered dimly. He could see Molly and Irene standing together, eyes wide, both with their wands pointed at him. Sherlock’s pockets were turned out. They’d been searching him for the potion. At his feet were quills, scraps of parchment, a few sweets…

“John,” Sherlock breathed, reaching for his own wand. Something about his gaze bolstered the willpower inside John. He didn’t need to think much to do it. Would Moriarty notice? He had no choice but to risk it. He could see the look in Sherlock’s eyes. Sherlock was entranced, broken. His hands were shaking. He looked like he was seeing John for the first time. Seeing the lie that Moriarty had put right in front of him. Sherlock had underestimated John terribly, hadn’t he? Never paused to think on or question the seemingly brave, unusual Gryffindor boy he’d fallen for. John saw Moriarty’s lie in Sherlock’s eyes. He believed it. He believed John was the murderer. It all made sense.

_John at the top of the stairs. Lowering his wand and stepping slowly down into the entrance hall after Sherlock had fled. Reaching Filch’s side. Raising his wand to Filch’s chest, cruelty glimmering in his eyes._

John blinked fast, three times.

_John angry and alone the night Sherlock decided to do his homework instead of visit him. Passing Victor Trevor in a darkened corridor, pausing and turning. Taking out his wand._

Three slow blinks.

_John pretending to suspect Sherlock in order to get him out of the way for a few hours. Stealing the potion from the Potions classroom before pocketing it and transforming into a fox. Bounding off into the Forbidden Forest in order to collect Sherlock again._

Another three fast blinks. Pause.

“John… what the hell…” stammered Sherlock.

“Bet you never saw this coming,” said John. He barely paid any attention to Moriarty’s words coming out of his mouth, he was so focused on Sherlock. He could be saying anything, it didn’t matter.

Come _on_ , Sherlock. If anyone would get it, it was him. The genius Ravenclaw with all the answers. He repeated the pattern. Three fast blinks, three slow, three fast. S-O-S. S-O-S. Come on Sherlock, save me. Save me.

“It seems that you’re looking for _my_ potion,” said John, turning to Irene and Molly, “Well, Sherlock stole it I suppose. But now it’s mine. Safe keeping, he said. I promised we’d share it but…” he laughed.

“John,” Molly said, warily, “we’re all here to get to the bottom of this. We need to find out what happened to Victor and Filch. If what you’re saying is true-”

“Who _cares_ what happened to Victor,” snapped Irene, stepping forward with her hand out, “Give me the potion, John. Give it to me.”

John stood still. Sherlock was looking into his eyes. Watching him blink. He saw the realisation dawning across Sherlock’s face. His expression turning from fear to… fear.

Irene took another step forward, snatching at the phial excitedly. The chain broke and the phial was in Irene’s hands.

“Irene, no!” screeched Molly, stepping forward to grab at her robes. The two of them fought for a moment before Irene cried “expelliarmus!” and Molly’s wand flew from her fingers to clatter somewhere in the darkness across the room.

“Irene!” yelled Molly, turning in time to see the wand vanish. Irene raised her own wand and pointed it at Molly’s chest. Molly’s eyes widened and she raised her hands in defeat.

John was guided backwards by Moriarty, though he kept his eyes on Sherlock.

Sherlock looked over at the spider sitting on his shoulder, then back at John. Finally _finally_ understanding. Sherlock squared his shoulders and lifted his wand. The spell hit the spider dead on, blasting John backwards with it’s force. His head hit the closed door behind him with a thud and he sank to the ground. His head hurt, his ears were ringing, he closed his eyes, trying to block out the sensations

“Jesus, John,” said Sherlock, rushing toward him and crouching at his side, a hand on his shoulder.

“Expelliarmus,” Moriarty’s spell hit Sherlock in the back and his wand flew across the room. He barely glanced away.

“Get away from me,” snapped Irene. John could hear her. Her voice sounded so quiet under the ringing in his ears.

“Expelliarmus, expelliarmus.” Moriarty’s voice came from the shadows. First Irene’s then John’s wand went flying.

Moriarty stood, the only one still with a wand in his hand and brushed his robes off. “Very _good_ Sherlock!” he said, smiling. Sherlock turned, narrowing his eyes at the man. Moriarty stepped towards Irene. She shrank back.

John was dizzy, his vision spun drunkenly as he blinked.

“Are you alright?” muttered Sherlock, his eyes back on John.

“Better than,” said John, quietly, pulling his mother’s wand from his robes, “I packed a spare.”

Sherlock’s smile was wide as he moved back allowing John a clear shot at Moriarty. John felt a stab of regret when Sherlock removed the protective hand from John’s shoulder. _Not now_ , he thought to himself.

Irene began to stammer, “Professor, no! We were just trying to get to the bottom of…” but John’s spell cut her off.

“Expelliarmus” he said, putting as much energy into it as he could. Moriarty’s wand flew from his hand. John could feel the energy from the spell leave him. He was dizzy, but he didn’t lower his wand, not yet, “Incarcerous,” he said, much quieter this time. Ropes appeared in midair and enveloped the professor. He wobbled and fell onto his side with a yell. John closed his eyes thankfully and let the world swirl around him. He took a deep breath and let it out. Then another.

“Sherlock,” he said, weakly. Three pairs of eyes were on him when he opened his own eyes again. Irene looked determined, her fingers around the phial. Molly and Sherlock, worried.

“The house elves,” stammered John, “They found the cauldron in Moriarty’s store cupboard. It was never stolen, he’s had it all along.” John was exhausted, confused and angry.

“But… that makes no sense,” murmured Sherlock, “Filch... Moriarty knew he never would have _actually_ been able to steal it, it was warded. Why kill him? It makes no sense. Unless…” Sherlock turned to the bound Moriarty, his eyes wide, “the potion’s a fake.”

“HAH!” said Moriarty. The way he barked it was like an attack, “THERE _IS_ NO POTION, DOOFUS!”

“No!” exclaimed Molly, pointing to the phial Irene was still holding, “two people have vanished, Sherlock. Died over something incredibly valuable.”

“No,” said Sherlock, rising and stepping over to Moriarty, he was disgusted with the man, “an item is only as valuable as the price someone will pay for it. Fake the price and you can fake the value.”

“You know what I like to call it?” asked Moriarty, “DAYLIGHT ROBBERY! This whole little game I’ve got going on, Sherlock. Don’t you see how fun it is? A little web of excitement and at the center, a glittering prize. I love to watch you all fight over it.” He paused, clearly relishing in it, “No! Daddy loves me the best!” his tone was light, mocking.

John could practically hear Sherlock’s mind whirring. His clever Ravenclaw brain putting all the parts together piece by piece.

“Filch suspected the potion was a fake.He was re-stocking the potions supplies and saw the ingredients you used. ” Sherlock’s voice was fast, fighting to keep up with his flying thoughts, “He wasn’t certain or he would have taken his suspicions to Fortescue straight away. The detention slip of Victor’s that John and I found, it links Victor to Filch.” He paused, took a breath and continued. The deductions coming rapid-fire, “He was out of bed after hours. Possibly trying to get ahead in order to win the potion legitimately, more likely he was working on his contacts. Victor’s crafty like that. You told us we’d have to make unlikely allies in order to succeed at Potions, how right you were. What ally could be more useful and more unlikely than the castle’s caretaker? Victor meant to be caught out of bed. That wasn’t an accident. Victor would never be caught by a simpleton like Filch unless he meant to. And he got a detention for it. Filch must have divulged his suspicions to Victor during his detention. But you found out. Perhaps you overheard the conversation down in the dungeons. Maybe Filch confronted you with his inventory list and asked for the truth. Either way, you had to get him out of the way. Victor must have been more suspicious once Filch vanished. Rightly so. Maybe he did some more research, figured out what was actually in the potion. He would have gone and questioned you. You had to get him out of the way. He goes missing too.”

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Irene, the phial slipped from her shaking fingers and landed with a crash on the floor. The glass stopper shattered everywhere. There was nothing inside. John’s heart lurched despite himself, he had _liked_ that phial.

Sherlock barely spared her half a glance before he went on, “Suddenly the potion looks pretty valuable. Two people have given their lives in order to try and capture it. Or so it appeared. So you removed the potion to make it look like it had been stolen by someone in the class. In order to get rid of the evidence, you drank it. Any other method of disposal could theoretically be traced back to you. But drinking the potion yourself was… _neat._ ” The side of Sherlock’s mouth tweaked in an almost-smile before he went on, “We all saw the steam coming out of your ears at breakfast time today. Pepper -up potion, wasn’t it? A pretty powerful brew by the looks of it too. Bicorn horn and mandrake root stewing away for that long would have had you steaming from the ears for hours. Impossible to hide but commonplace enough that you thought no one would notice.”

Sherlock paused for breath, Irene looked pale, like she was about to faint. Molly was thunderstruck.

“Very good Sherlock,” Moriarty intoned, watching him, curiously.

John had the faint suspicion that Sherlock was showing off. The idiot.

“You had us where you wanted us, didn’t you, Professor. Right where you wanted us and it made you sloppy. You enjoyed watching us all running into Victor’s room searching for evidence. Ganging up on one another. Anderson and Sawyer had a fight out by the lake this afternoon. Irene all but kidnapped Molly and then ransomed her to get to me. You must have been patting yourself on the back. Eager to get closer to the action and watch us practically kill one another over something that had no value. Two steps back and you wouldn’t be lying under ropes. But you just couldn’t resist taking another look at your handiwork. But my question is why. Why set your students against one another. Have us practically fighting to the death over something of almost no value. What were you going to do with the winner? Or did you just…”

“Some men just want to watch the world burn, Sherlock,” Moriarty smiled cruelly up at them all, “Besides, you should be proud of yourself. You solved the mystery. Out of all the students in my class, you’re the cleverest. Sherlock Holmes.” He nodded, “You got the closest. You won.”

“You’re wrong,” replied Sherlock, taking John’s wand from him and lifting it to point it at Moriarty’s chest, “Victor Trevor was the cleverest.”

It was as though the air was crackling with Sherlock’s anger but Moriarty looked unconcerned. It was a feat, John thought, for a man who was bound and lying prone on the floor, a wand pointed at his chest, to look so in charge of things.

“I’ll be watching you, Sherlock,” said Moriarty, with unadorned sincerity.

And with that, he changed. John shook himself. How could he have forgotten? How was it that they’d all forgotten? The spider. Moriarty could transform into a spider. The transformation seemed to happen in slow motion, John’s eyes refusing to believe what was happening. The ropes came free as he shrank, falling to slither about uselessly on the floor.

“No!” cried Irene.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, aiming a curse at the spider, but it scuttled out of the way and down a crack between the flagstones.

Sherlock lowered his wand as Molly dashed forward to see where the spider had gone.

“I can’t see him,” she said, “I think there must be a way out.”

Sherlock lowered the wand slowly, “Catch… you… later,” he murmured.

“ _No you won’t!_ ” came the sing-song reply, John heard it inside his own head as though Moriarty had thrown the reply directly into his own mind. Without his wand. Whilst in the form of a spider. That was advanced magic. John shivered, his head throbbing painfully.

Sherlock ducked down and placed a hand on his shoulder “John. Are you alright?” he asked, forcefully.

John nodded.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice almost slurring, “that… was amazing.”

Sherlock smiled and John huffed out a laugh in relief. He had been so worried about the other boy the relief was almost overwhelming. Sherlock leaned forward and pressed his forehead gently to John’s. It was over.

“Let’s get that head seen to,” said Sherlock.

“Ok,” John said, closing his eyes and resting his head against the stone wall. He could hear the teachers out in the corridor beyond searching for them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Now that we know it was Irene (and Molly) who sent that note, I can tell you ‘Sullivan’ refers to Sullivan Fawley (those who googled already knew this haha), a relative of Sherlock and Irene who went to Hogwarts in the 90’s. He is a real HP-verse character, though he wasn’t in the books, just one of the games. He told Irene and Sherlock about the room of requirement and how the secret entrance works.  
> \- Can I reiterate… case!fic is HARD, ok? My brain has melted. I know I only have myself to blame… nevertheless. Ouch.


	15. Epilogue

Hogwarts was closed for a week so that the Ministry officials could search the castle and the grounds for Professor Moriarty. Sherlock, John, Irene and Molly were questioned by the teachers, by the Headmaster, by Ministry officials and finally by the Minister for Magic herself. It almost reached the point where John wasn’t sure what had happened in that candle-lit room anymore. Luckily Sherlock’s memory was consistent and perfect. They had held hands through it all. Sherlock was John’s anchor. How could he say anything wrong when he had someone who had such confidence in him? It was exciting to finally feel secure enough, safe enough, to be honest about Sherlock. To be able to walk over and say hello, or even just smile at him in front of the other students. It made it feel real for the first time. John relished in it.

They booked a room together at Hogsmeade while Hogwarts was closed. Sherlock had reasoned that there was no point returning to London when they would probably just have to floo right back again once the school was re-opened. Their room was bright with cheerful bluebell-patterned wallpaper and windowsills that were deep enough to sit on. The summer rain drizzled outside but the blonde timber floors seemed to glow in the overcast daylight. John did what he always did when faced with a new bedroom, he ran and dived onto the white, fluffy bedspread. Sherlock stood by their bags, an easy smile playing at his lips.

“Come on,” said John, beckoning the other boy, “I know you want to.”

Sherlock shook his head, laughing and ran towards John. A giant leap saw him onto the bed beside John and the two of them were laughing, kissing, smiling. John reached for Sherlock and held his hand. Time seemed to slow down as they paused, their breathing matched as they looked into one another’s eyes.

“I still can’t believe how brilliant you are,” murmured John, “putting all that together. It was genius.”

“Meretricious,” said Sherlock, dismissively, though John could see the hint of a smile there still. He secretly relished the compliments, John was certain. Sherlock rolled onto his back.

John sighed, shifting to rest his forehead against Sherlock’s shoulder, hugging him close. His mind wandered. In the excitement, he had made sure not to let himself forget about Moriarty’s real victims. His thoughts would stray back to them whenever he had a quiet moment.

“Do you think they will ever find out what happened to Victor and Filch?” he asked, quietly, voicing his thoughts for the first time.

“Difficult to say,” said Sherlock, turning and running a hand through John’s hair, “the only place they could be is the place we suspected all along. The forest.”

John murmured in agreement, his eyes closed.

“Moriarty’s animagus form is a spider,” said Sherlock, “Perhaps he befriended one of the creatures living there. Giving his victims to a magical beast would have been one of the easiest ways to get them out of the picture.”

“It’s horrible,” said John, “I suppose we managed to bring things to a head before students started killing one another for real.”

“I do wonder if it would have come to that…” Sherlock said, musing on the thoughts, “Moriarty had it all planned out perfectly. If left to his own manipulative devices he’d have let us kill one another down to the last student.”

“All so he could pick a favourite for his little mind games,” said John, “you won’t have, though… fought to the death over it.”

“Who knows,” said Sherlock, “Moriarty’s powers of manipulation were remarkable. But there was one thing he wasn’t anticipating. One thing that he overlooked in his obsessions. He _told_ us to make allies and yet he assumed we wouldn’t involve anyone outside of the Potions class. If it wasn’t for Filch and for you, John, who knows where we’d be.”

John lifted his head, “He thought I was you. Moriarty, he… he was shocked when he pulled off the invisibility cloak and found me in that corridor instead of you.”

“The phials had a tracking spell on them,” said Sherlock, “I always suspected it but… I overheard the teachers confirming it last night. That way he always knew what was going on with his students. Where we were at all times. He never thought we’d take them off because his class was so prestigious. Certainly, it never occurred to him that one of his students would give theirs away.” Sherlock caressed John’s hair again, John relaxed into it. Sherlock’s touch and the sound of the rain outside was so soothing, “Moriarty’s plan fell apart the moment I gave you that phial. Perhaps before. He never would have guessed that students outside of the potions class, ones that were unable to compete for his potion, would have any knowledge of his game.”

“So you’re saying… I saved the day?”

Sherlock’s laugh was a low rumble, “well… you certainly saved me,” he murmured.

John pulled Sherlock towards him and kissed him gently. He let his lips trace over Sherlock’s, soft and full. He felt Sherlock relax into it as he pulled him closer. It was remarkable, the difference between Sherlock while he was distracted by the disappearances and Sherlock now. He was so much more pliant, relaxed. John had to admit he was enjoying it rather a lot.

Slowly, John worked Sherlock’s tie loose.

“About time we got out of these uniforms,” he said. Though, he didn’t really need an excuse. Sherlock lifted his chin and huffed out a laugh. John pulled the tie free and began unbuttoning his shirt.

“I’ve always hated ties,” admitted Sherlock, reaching for John’s.

They took their time undressing one another, relishing in it. They had nowhere to be, nothing to hide and nothing to worry over. John kissed at Sherlock’s collarbone. Sliding his lips softly along the warm skin. Sherlock’s fingers slid over John’s hipbones to pull at his trousers. John gasped as the fabric slid over his erection. Sherlock laughed, wickedly. His deep voice, irresistible. John pulled him close for another languid kiss, rolling onto him. He rolled his hips and felt Sherlock move in reply. Sherlock’s long, slender fingers slid their way underneath John’s belt and trousers to grip at his arse.

“Jesus, Sherlock,” breathed John, between kisses.

Sherlock rolled him over onto his back, pushing his hands underneath John’s trousers as they went. John let him and his trousers were off in short order. Sherlock’s fingers trailed up his sides and down again, underneath him to grip at his arse cheeks again. John shivered, rolling his hips up into Sherlock’s clothed erection.

“Get these off, will you?” he murmured.

Sherlock lifted himself off John just enough to reach his belt. John watched his body move, lean and pale. He reached up and touched Sherlock’s chest as Sherlock removed the last of his clothing. He lowered himself back down onto John, skin on skin.

“John,” Sherlock breathed, kissing him, grinding down, hard against him. John’s hands flew to Sherlock’s hips, pulling him down harder and thrusting his own cock up in reply. The slide of skin on skin was delicious, if a little dry. John reached over to his trousers and pulled out his wand. Breaking his lips away from Sherlock’s for just long enough to murmur “lubricus”. Sherlock moaned audibly as they were both slick and sliding along one another.

“Put your knees together,” whispered Sherlock, after a few moments. John, who had actually been contemplating wrapping his legs around Sherlock, smiled. He was curious, Sherlock usually let him take the reigns, he wanted to know what Sherlock wanted. He wanted to know every thought and idea that passed through that genius mind of his. Including whatever he was planning right now.

Still on his back, John straightened his legs, knees together, his hands on Sherlock’s waist. Their eyes met and Sherlock grinned, wickedly. He reached down, sliding his cock between John’s thighs. John groaned as Sherlock’s cock brushed against the underside of his balls as he slid back. Sherlock thrust again, John tensed so that his thighs gripped at either side of Sherlock’s cock, hard between his legs. Sherlock dropped his head onto John’s chest, thrusting again. The dark curls of his hair tickling at John’s neck. John kept one hand on Sherlock’s waist and grasped his hair with his other hand, pulling gently. When Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes were hooded, pupils blown wide, his lips kiss-pink.

He was  _so_ far gone, John marveled, gripping the fistful of hair tighter. Sherlock moved an arm up to support his weight better, John kissed and licked at the side of his thumb, the only part of him his lips could reach easily. Sherlock’s fingertips brushed against John’s cheek as he sucked on his thumb. Sherlock’s other hand wrapped itself around John’s cock, mirroring the strokes and twists of John’s tongue on his thumb. John wiggled his tongue across the pad of Sherlock’s thumb just to be sure. He shivered as the gesture was mimicked my long, clever fingers against the underside of his glans.

Sherlock’s own cock slid between John’s thighs again, each thrust at a slightly different angle. Sometimes he would brush hard against the underside of John’s balls, nearly reaching his arse. John groaned. It was messy, uneven and… John loved it. His own erection was strained upwards, tight in Sherlock’s hand. There was lubricant, sweat and mess all over them, everywhere.

Sherlock caught his eye, “Is this…”

“Don’t stop,” huffed John, releasing Sherlock’s thumb. His hips arched up into Sherlock’s hand. He made sure he kept his thighs tightly together, his fingers still gripping Sherlock’s hair tight. Sherlock’s thrusts sped up. He was close, he dropped his head onto John’s chest again. John shifted his grip in Sherlock’s hair to grasp around the back of his neck. Supporting, loving. Sherlock’s thrusts went uneven, more so than they had been before. His entire body tensed against John’s as he came, silent but breathing hard onto John’s chest. John felt the come between his thighs, the shaking boy above him. He closed his eyes and relished the moment. He relaxed his legs, allowing Sherlock’s cock to slip free. Sherlock lay boneless on top of John, a sweaty, shaking mess. It was lucky he was so slender really. John’s cock was still between his fingers, nearly throbbing with desire, with want. John would wait. He loved Sherlock when he was helpless. When he had been taken apart like this. He touched Sherlock’s hair, softly

Sherlock stirred, slid up. He was smiling. Happy. John found himself smiling too.

Sherlock kissed him, tongue sliding into his mouth, John’s meeting it. Sherlock squeezed John’s cock, sliding his fingers up and down along his length, gently. John groaned, marvelling at how much he had changed since they first kissed. Sherlock was confident, knew what he wanted it was…

John’s thoughts trailed off as he watched Sherlock slide down again, trailing small kisses and bites along his body as he went. Sherlock caught John’s eye as he took his cock into his mouth. John separated his legs to make room for him, there was mess all over them. Sherlock trailed a finger through it all, humming contentedly. John could feel the vibration from his voice through his cock. He groaned, his hands back in Sherlock’s hair again. Sherlock’s mouth was so warm, the roughness of his tongue felt maddeningly good against John’s glans. As Sherlock slid his mouth downward, taking him further in, John thought he might see stars. He gripped tighter onto the dark curls and fought to keep his eyes open. This was too bloody beautiful to miss.

“Sherlock,” he murmured, “your mouth it’s…”

He was cut off by another low noise from the back of Sherlock’s mouth. That shouldn’t be allowed. Sherlock drew back again. He was taking it slow, which was probably for the best. John was so far gone. Sherlock’s eyes were so beautiful, looking up at him wide and joyous. His plush lips sliding back and forth along John’s length. Sherlock’s tongue on his glans, rolling around it in circles. John fought to keep his eyes open, he loved watching this side of Sherlock. The haughty Ravenclaw in Transfiguration class taking him apart piece by piece. He ruffled at Sherlock’s hair. It was already a mess, he loved Sherlock disheveled. Sherlock slid his lips back down again, taking John further into his warm mouth. John gritted his teeth, he could feel the pleasure pooling inside him, taking him apart from all sides. He gripped tight onto Sherlock as a warning. Everything except the two of them seemed to blink out of existence when he climaxed. Just a pulsing, incredible explosion of pleasure. John could hear someone _him?_ shouting Sherlock’s name. Cursing and gripping hard onto his hair.

He fell, boneless, back onto the bed. Sherlock pulled himself up to John and almost by instinct John pulled him close. He pressed their foreheads together, gasping. He was close to tears. He sniffed, breathing hard.

“It’s alright,” murmured Sherlock, a hand soothed at his back and John felt a shudder pass through him. He pulled himself in tighter against Sherlock, wanting to be closer.

Sherlock tilted his chin upwards and they were kissing again. Lips slow and soft against one another until John was calm again.

“That was incredible, Sherlock,” he murmured.

“It was,” he agreed, fingers still softly stroking against John’s back.

John smiled, closing his eyes. He could fall asleep like this. He supposed he would, later on. He’d spend the night here snuggled up with Sherlock. They would wake up together in the morning and there would be no reason for them to separate all day. They would be able to have breakfast together and it didn’t matter who saw. Did other couples really get to _live_ like this? It seemed too good to be true. They would be able to live like this for days. Maybe even a whole week before Hogwarts opened again.

“I don’t want to go back to my old dormitory,”

“Because you want to be able to spend all your nights with me?” Sherlock asked.

“Yes,”

“Don’t be daft, John. I’ve broken into your dormitory before. I’ll be doing it again.”

“Will you spend whole nights there with me?”

“If you like,” murmured Sherlock.

“I’d like that very much,”

The silence stretched out, Sherlock’s fingertips still sliding their way along John’s back. He loved the feeling, it was delicious.

“Do you think the ministry officials will find Moriarty?”

“Probably not,” murmured Sherlock, “I’m sure he knew how to get out of the castle and off the grounds without being caught. I can’t imagine he’s still in the school.”

“Do you think he’ll come back?” It was John’s biggest fear.

“It’s possible, do you?”

“Yeah,” said John, “He probably will. He seemed pretty certain you were the smartest. The winner of his little game.”

“I suppose in a way I was. Or the two of us were, at least.”

Sherlock trailed his fingers up and over John’s shoulder to caress his face. John smiled and Sherlock returned the smile.

“Do you think we’ll be able to outsmart him again?” asked John.

There was a twinkle in Sherlock’s eye.

“Scared, Watson?” he asked.

“You wish,” replied John, pulling him in for another kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The 'scared, Watson'/'You wish' is a classic exchange from HP between Malfoy and Potter. Obviously I've switched up the names.  
> \- I’ve left it fairly open-ended in case I decide to write a sequel. If *you* want to have a go (or even write the mystrade-at-hogwarts spin-off!) please please have at it!


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